


Unexpected Connection

by SoManyJacks



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Blood, Cheese, Fluff, Harassment, Homophobia, M/M, Modern AU, Smut, accidental blood though, always angst, gratuitous LARP-ing, more cheese
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 10:06:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7680256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoManyJacks/pseuds/SoManyJacks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little exercise in what it would take to bring Dorian and Alistair together in a modern setting. Cheese and smut and awkwardness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“And what does he look like again?” Dorian slid hanger after hanger along the closet rod with one hand, holding the phone up to his ear with the other. 

On the other end of the line, Felix sighed. “Don’t worry, he’s handsome. Not as handsome as Cullen, of course.” 

“Of course,” Dorian smirked. “Couldn’t have that.”

“Reddish hair, sort of darkish ruddy complexion, brownish eyes, tallish.” 

“That’s a lot of ishes,” Dorian pointed out. He paused, toying with the sleeve of a shirt. “You think I should go with a suit?”

“Mmm,” Felix mused. “You’ll be overdressed if you have a jacket and tie, but you could get away with an open collar.”

“My dear Felix, I’ve never found a situation that isn’t improved by being overdressed,” he sniffed.

“I take it you’ve never been skinny dipping.” Felix’s voice was dry as paper.

Dorian laughed. “Fair point.”

“I have to go,” Felix said. “Cullen needs more help picking out an outfit than you do. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Blind dates were not Dorian's thing, normally. But for Felix, he’d make an exception. And perhaps it would be good for him. Felix was going to marry Cullen someday; it wouldn’t hurt for Dorian to get to know him better. There had been a bit of friction when they’d first met; Dorian wasn’t convinced there was a human alive that was good enough for Felix, and perhaps had come off a touch combative. Cullen, for his part, had gone on the defensive, becoming outright dour. Which, in turn, had caused Dorian to become prickly and arrogant. 

It was an uncomfortable dinner, to say the least.

Still, Felix didn’t give up. He scolded Dorian after, probably Cullen too, and insisted they hang out again, this time going to a comedy club. Between the laughter and the drinks after, Dorian had to admit that Cullen wasn’t all that terrible. And there was no mistaking the affection in his eyes when he looked at Felix. 

A shaky truce did not friendship make, however. And Felix seemed bound and determined to bring them together. If that meant attending a wine and cheese tasting at a local art gallery with Cullen's childhood friend Alistair, so be it. Dorian could charm anyone. It would literally cost him nothing but time to spend a few hours making polite conversation and drinking wine, and the rewards would be more than worth it. 

He wanted to like Cullen, he really did. Privately, he could admit that there was, perhaps, a soupçon of jealousy at work. No one had looked at him the way Cullen looked at Felix in a very long time. Dorian sighed as he selected a dove grey linen suit. After another few seconds, he gave up and just grabbed a white shirt. No point in spending time on it; not like he had anyone to impress, really.

He arrived at the gallery before Felix and Cullen. Dorian waited out front, taking a seat on one of the wrought iron benches near the sculpture garden. He pointedly did not fiddle with his phone, choosing instead to people watch. There were a few people he knew -- no surprise, really. He certainly spent enough time at the gallery. He nodded politely and greeted his acquaintances.

A battered Range Rover pulled into the parking lot. The sheer size of the vehicle caught Dorian's eye, out of place jammed in with the sedate luxury sedans. Not to mention there was a fair bit of mud speckled on the wheel wells. 

A man hopped out and looked around. Reddish, ruddyish, tallish. Most likely his date for the evening. It... certainly could have been worse. He was obviously in good shape; the fabric of his shirt was straining across his chest, shoulders, and biceps. The shirt itself was a basic blue oxford, topping a pair of utterly boring chinos. Dorian sighed when he saw how long the break was on the pants. Does no one in Ferelden understand the concept of a proper inseam? When the man turned around, Dorian did perk up a bit. His ass was phenomenal.

Still, it was not a promising beginning. He had the look of a generic Ferelden frat boy, albeit a very nervous one. He stood by his car door, turning around in circles, obviously looking for Cullen and Felix. His gaze flitted over Dorian without making eye contact, and his cheeks went a bit dark. When he turned his head again, Dorian caught his eye and gave him a polite half-smile, curious to see what Alistair would do.

The man actually jumped a little and spun around so quickly Dorian was afraid he might clock himself on the side mirror. He didn’t turn around again, instead pulling out his phone and texting furiously. 

Dorian sighed. It was going to be a long night.

Felix and Cullen arrived within a few minutes. Dorian watched as Cullen greeted Alistair, pulling him into a rough one-armed hug. Alistair shook hands with Felix, talking a mile a minute. Dorian stood, waving at Felix. 

The men made their way over. Well, Felix did; Cullen and Alistair were having a fevered discussion, walking slowly behind.

“I knew you’d go with a suit,” Felix laughed. 

“Well I didn’t spend a fortune so it could grace my closet,” Dorian tutted. “Plus it goes so well with these shoes.”

Felix acknowledged the point with a tilt of his head. Dorian looked over Felix’s shoulder; Cullen and Alistair were still chatting. Alistair looked almost stricken. “Felix, you did tell him I’m Tevinter, right? I’m getting the impression -”

He broke off the thought as the two Fereldens strode up, Cullen holding back a grin. “Sorry, just had some catching up to do. Alistair, this is Dorian.”

“Hello, ever so pleased to meet you. I, ah, thought that might be you, when I pulled up, but one never knows, and I didn’t want to be rude, because what if you were someone else and then that  _ would _ be awkward, right?” Alistair still hadn’t let go of his hand, despite giving him only the briefest hints of eye contact.

“Quite,” Dorian smiled gently and extricated his hand. 

After a pause that was three seconds too long, Felix spoke up. “Well, shall we go in?”

They headed inside. Once the tickets were purchased, they staked out a high-top in the corner. There was a fair amount of activity. A dozen tables set up, each with a vintner and cheesemaker. People roamed to and fro with tiny plates and tasting glasses, largely ignoring the art on the walls and the string quartet sawing away in the corner. 

“Sweet maker, I had no idea there were be so many,” Alistair said, his eyes wide.

It wasn’t actually that crowded, but Dorian was determined not to pick fights. The word of the evening was  _ agreeable _ . “Yes, it’s a good turnout,” Dorian replied, looking at the crowd. “Good for the gallery, really, to get so many people.”

“I meant the cheeses,” Alistair admitted with a nervous chuckle. 

Dorian blinked, his mouth open to respond, but... honestly, what could he say?

“I for one am thrilled that local agriculture is booming,” Cullen broke in. “It’s a good sign for the regional economy.”

“Er, how so?” Dorian knew next to nothing about agriculture or economics, and cared even less, but he’d do anything to keep the conversation going. 

Luckily, it seemed to be a favorite topic of Felix and Cullen. No real surprise -- Felix was interested in the economic aspect, given that he was a statistician, and Cullen's job as an advisor to the Governor meant he was well-versed in jobs and other things that politicians seem to just inherently  _ know.  _ They chatted for several minutes, throwing around words like ‘sustainable’ and ‘micro-farms’ and ‘value added products’, with Dorian interjecting encouraging phrases every so often. Alistair nodded a lot, looking everywhere but at Dorian. 

“Well all this talk of growing food, let’s get some, shall we?” Dorian smiled brightly.

After Cullen and Alistair turned away, Dorian shot Felix a long-suffering glance. The man shrugged in apology and followed his fiance. 

Dorian grabbed a plate and glass from the central table and took a turn around the room, seeing what was available. He settled on a golden un-oaked white, with the goat’s milk cheese selected for the pairing. He headed back to their table. 

As he set his plate down, Alistair returned. The man had no wine, but clutched two plates that were literally brimming with cheese. “Don’t know why the plates are so small,” he grinned cheerfully. “I could only hit half the tables.”

It was clear that he’d gotten at least one sample of everything on offer. “Mmm,” Dorian nodded, once again at a loss for words. 

Cullen returned then as well, with a glass of red and a few crumbly hard cheeses and olives. “Alistair - did you.... How many did you take?” He was laughing a bit.

Alistair’s grin slipped off his face. “One of each on, er, that side?”

“Andraste’s ass,” Cullen laughed, shaking his head.

Felix caught the tail end of the exchange. “Well why not? It’s a tasting, after all.” He gave Alistair a warm smile. 

Alistair tried to smile back, but it was clear he was embarrassed. “I’m not very good at saying no to cheese.” 

Dorian was caught halfway between sympathy and disbelief. Had the man never been to an event like this? Or was he just socially inept? “Well I’m not very good at saying no to wine,” Dorian offered. “Except you need separate glasses, I’m afraid.”

“Mm, yes, I found out the hard way you can’t really mix them.” Alistair scrunched his nose.

Cullen burst out laughing. “I forgot all about that.”

It was clear there was a story there. “What happened?” Dorian asked, sipping his wine. It was on the right side of decent, but only just.

“Oh Maker,” Alistair groaned, blushing. 

“When we were in school, what were we, thirteen?” Cullen looked at Alistair.

“I think so, yes.”

“Anyway, we had been studying military history. The Grey Wardens, specifically. And Alistair here decides we should make our own Grey Whiskey.” 

“What’s Grey Whiskey?” Felix asked, taking a bite of his cheddar.

“The story goes, that as the Wardens travelled, they would hide supplies for each other in the field. And they’d take whatever liquor they had, mix it all in one bottle, and voila. Grey Whiskey.” Cullen's eyes were sparkling with mischief.

“Ugh,” Alistair shuddered. “I decided to try it, except all I had was things from the monastery.”

“I’m sorry,  _ monastery?” _ Dorian shot a glance at Felix, but he didn’t seem to know anything about it either.

“Er, yes, long story - lived at a monastery from twelve to eighteen.” Alistair mumbled the words down at his plate. “When I wasn’t at boarding school, that is.”

“Anyway,” Cullen said, covering the moment. “Alistair comes back from holiday with a bottle of -- what was in there?”

“Communion wine, cooking brandy, bitters, and I believe some peppermint schnapps.” Alistair was at least smiling now.

“Oh good lord,” Dorian laughed. “How much did you vomit?”

“So, so much,” Alistair slumped, rolling his eyes a little. He glanced at Dorian and away. 

Felix was howling with laughter.

“Oh it gets better,” Cullen said. “It wasn’t just that we got sick. It was that we got sick as we were getting caught by Headmaster Duncan in the basement.”

“I puked on his shoes,” Alistair admitted. “Just... allllll over them.”

“I can only imagine how much trouble you got into,” Dorian smirked.

“Not that much, actually. Duncan was just as obsessed with the Grey Wardens as we were. He gave us a week of grounds duty.”

“We spent most of it having mock quarterstaff fights with sticks,” Alistair noted. 

“Ooh, now I’d have liked to see that,” Felix smiled, sliding an arm around Cullen's waist, looking up at the blond. “Like a handsome knight in shining armor.” 

Dorian happened to glance at Alistair as the man watched the moment of affection transpire. He looked utterly lost for a moment, swallowing hard. “Well in any event,” he muttered. “I’ll just... get some wine.” He whirled around, almost knocking into a server. Apologizing profusely, he tottered into the crowd. 

“I’ll be right back,” Cullen said. “Have to find a restroom.”

Dorian, being a model of patience and virtue, did not say anything whatsoever, even after both men were out of earshot, merely raising his eyebrows and taking a sip of wine while looking pointedly at his best friend.

“I’m sorry, Dorian,” Felix laughed. “I had no idea he was so... awkward.”

“Awkward and obsessed with lactose,” Dorian corrected him. “I’ve never seen someone eat so much cheese in one sitting - good lord, he’s eating more?” A glance into the crowd revealed Alistair happily accepting a cube of something and popping it into his mouth. “How does the man ever take a shit?”

“Stop it,” Felix chided, though he continued to laugh. “He’s not that bad.”

“Who’s not that bad?” Cullen said, coming back up to the table.

“The new host of the Daily Show,” Dorian lied smoothly. “I’m sorry, but as much as I like looking at Trevor Noah, he’s just too young.”

“You’re not giving him a chance,” Felix said, easily going with the new flow of conversation.

“Who’s too young?” Alistair returned to the table with a glass of wine and yet another plate of cheese.

Dorian didn’t even look at Felix. “We’re debating about the Daily Show. I think the new host is too young for the job. He’s funny, I’ll grant that, and cute as a button, but I miss Jon Stewart.”

“Ah,” Alistair nodded sagely, looking somewhere over Dorian's left shoulder. It appeared he was going to say something else, but then he took a hasty gulp of his drink instead. 

Despite his intentions to play nice, Dorian had limits. Whether it was bashfulness or something less benign, Alistair’s obvious discomfort with Dorian was beginning to rankle. “What do  _ you _ think?” he prodded.

“I....” Alistair cleared his throat. “Don’t watch a lot of television, I’m afraid.”

Dorian blinked at Alistair. Was the man living under a rock? Dorian didn’t even have cable, yet he still kept up. A glance at any social media on any day of the week would do it. Dorian fought the urge to grind his teeth together. Time to try a new tack. “Have you been to the gallery before?”

“Oh yes, lots,” Alistair nodded, smiling at a point somewhere near Dorian's ear. 

“Oh, a fan of art,” Dorian said. Thank the fucking Maker. “What do you think of the current show?” He waved at the closest painting, an abstract with bold geometric shapes in primary colors.

“It’s very... colorful,” Alistair said seriously. “Very much so.”

In his peripheral vision, Dorian saw Felix and Cullen share a look and shift their weight, squirming. 

“Is that camembert?” Felix asked suddenly, pointing at one of Alistair’s plates. “I want to get some - which table is it?”

“Oh! Ah, I’ll just show you, shall I?” Alistair pointed with both hands, leading Felix into the crowd.

Trapped at the table with Cullen, Dorian gazed out over the room, trying to decide what kind of bland sentiment about the event would cover the awkward moment. 

“Sorry, he’s not....” Cullen shook his head. “I was going to say he’s not always like this, but that's not quite true.”

“He seems very nice,” Dorian said dutifully.

“You’re intimidating the hell out of him,” Cullen said bluntly.

Dorian took a sip of his wine, trying to decide if that was as accusatory as it sounded.

Apparently not. “That came out wrong,” Cullen apologized. “I mean, this is the first I’ve been able to drag him out more than just the two of us since his wife died, and -”

“What?” Dorian spluttered. He groped about for a napkin, hastily wiping his face.

“Felix didn’t tell you.” Cullen frowned.

“No.” And he was right to leave that part out. No way would Dorian have agreed to a blind date with a grieving widower. Not that he was biphobic -- it was the ‘grieving’ part that tripped him up. Unexpected displays of naked emotion were not exactly Dorian's cup of tea.

“Anyway -” Cullen began to explain further, but Felix and Alistair returned. 

“Found it!” Alistair grinned, placing yet  _ another  _ plate down. By now the table was overflowing. They re-arranged things, consolidating the cheeses together and stacking the empty plates. “We almost got confused by some brie for a moment, but I prevailed.”

“Indeed,” Dorian smiled. The conversation continued for a few more moments, and then Dorian drained his wine. “I’ll be back,” he said, holding up his empty glass. 

He took his time, wandering about. After snagging another glass of wine, he mingled for a bit, chatting with a few acquaintances as well as one of the winemakers. Anything to keep him from going back to the table. 

When he glanced back, Felix and Cullen were alone, deep in conversation. Guessing Alistair was in the restroom, Dorian waited a bit longer. His wine was nearly empty, after all. No point in hurrying back only to have to turn around and leave again. 

A few more minutes passed, and Dorian fetched a final glass of wine before heading back to the table. “Sorry, got waylaid,” he said. “Where’s Alistair?” He looked around.

“Left,” Felix said. “Said he had a headache.”

“Ah,” Dorian nodded. The relief was only temporary, as now he was in third-wheel territory, which was a whole different kind of uncomfortable. 

“I think we’re going to grab some dinner,” Felix said. “Care to come with?”

“No no, you go ahead. I’ve got some things in the fridge I have to use up,” Dorian lied. 

Surprisingly, Cullen offered his hand. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I mean it.”

“Of course!” Dorian scoffed, smiling as if spending his Saturday evening watching Ferelden’s Most Awkward Widower eat his weight in cheese was his idea of a good time. 

Cullen smiled warmly, though behind him Felix rolled his eyes. Never could put anything past Felix. 

Felix gave him a hug. “I’ll text you later,” he said.

“Promise or threat?” It was a very old joke.

“Yes.” Felix nodded, completing the ritual. 

Dorian watched them go. After a moment he realized that he had enough cheese and empty plates in front of him to look as if he’d lost an eating contest, so he beat a hasty retreat. He headed out the side door to the sculpture garden. It was much quieter -- the rain earlier in the day had left everything soggy. 

He turned the corner to the side patio. Alistair was there, leaning over the railing, clutching a mostly-full glass of wine, looking miserable. Dorian almost turned around, but ironically, his sympathetic instinct to leave the man alone with his misery warred with his selfish desire to not interact further, and he froze.

The sound of his shoe scuffing on the flagstone was enough to catch Alistair’s attention. Once again, he couldn’t quite look at Dorian. At least this time he didn’t try to smile.

Fuck. Dorian walked up to the man. “They told me you’d left,” he said, keeping his voice cheerful. 

“Mm, not... exactly. Couldn’t face home quite yet.” Alistair looked over the garden. Now that he wasn’t trying to be, well, social, he seemed much more at ease with himself. It made Dorian a bit more comfortable as well.

“Ah,” Dorian said delicately. He put a hand on the railing and immediately retracted it; faced with a palmful of rainwater, he shook his hand ineffectively. He couldn’t very well wipe his hand on his clothes.

Without missing a beat, Alistair reached into his pocket and pulled out a plain white handkerchief. Not a pocket square; this was a utilitarian bit of fabric. Still, it seemed clean, so Dorian thanked him and wiped his hand. Who carried handkerchiefs these days? It was oddly charming.

“You don’t have to stay on my account. I can’t imagine I’m very good company. Not good with -” he gestured at Dorian.

“Tevinters?” Dorian guessed.

“What? No, don’t be daft.” Alistair actually looked at him, holding his gaze for an impressive two seconds before letting it drop to the collar of Dorian's shirt. “I meant tall dark and handsome men. Get all tongue tied.” His line of sight dipped a bit lower and then away.

Suddenly things made more sense, especially what Cullen had been trying to tell him. Dorian wanted to kick himself. He’d gotten so used to the constant microaggressions of the South that he mistook Alistair finding him attractive for distaste. Well. Dorian  _ was _ dressed to kill. He just hadn’t been expecting so much collateral damage.

“Do you now?” Dorian tilted his head, watching the man as he took a sip of wine. “Except I think you’re actually taller than I am.”

Alistair snorted in disbelief. “I don’t think so.”

“No, stand up straight. Let’s find out.” Dorian set his glass down.

Alistair looked dubious, but he complied. Dorian stood face to face with him, probably closer than necessary for the purposes of the demonstration. A little flirting wouldn’t hurt to make the man feel a bit better about himself. 

Dorian slid his hand along the top of his own head, stopping just short of Alistair’s eyebrows. “See?”

Alistair was frowning at the top of Dorian's head. “Are you... cheating? You’re counting your hair, I’m pretty sure that's not allowed.” He looked down at Dorian skeptically.

This time the eye contact lasted much longer. As they were also almost close enough to kiss, it was, well. Rather smoldering. Dorian provided most of the smolder, of course. Alistair breathed in a little too quickly and stumbled back. 

Dorian laughed. “Well you’re still taller -- what difference does it make?”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Alistair said seriously.

Was the man a literal boy scout? And why was that suddenly so appealing? “Seeing as I’m only dark and handsome now, maybe you could tell me what you do for a living?”

“Oh, er. Nothing interesting, I’m afraid. I work at City Hall. Planning. Permits, mostly. Signs and development plans, er, that sort of thing.”

There was very little to work with there, but Dorian was undaunted. “Is it political, like Cullen?”

“Ohhhhhh no. No no no. No,” Alistair laughed. “I’m not much of a leader. No, very bad at that, leading. That was more my -” He stopped short, squinting over the garden. 

“Your wife’s thing?” Dorian guessed. Maker, why did he say that? That was the last topic he wanted to bring up.

“Mmm.” Alistair nodded. He gulped a bit of his wine. 

Shit. Dorian couldn’t leave it on that note. Desperately, he cast about for a topic of conversation. “The gardens are quite lovely this time of year, don’t you think?”

Alistair’s eyes widened and he looked at Dorian in disbelief. “Do you really think so?”

It was so far from the response Dorian was expecting that he was caught off-guard. “Er, yes?”

“Ugh, I don’t. They’ve done a terrible job. I’m on about it to them constantly, but do they listen? Nooooo.” Alistair shook his head and drank a little more wine.

His response was so fervent that Dorian  _ had _ to know more. “How so?”

“Well just look at it.” Alistair flung his hand out. The patio was ten or so steps above ground level, affording a view of much of the grounds. “So, this is a sculpture garden, right? Then why doesn’t the landscaping actually enhance the sculptures? Look. There. You’ve got the pointy metal one, right?”

“The Calder?” Dorian asked.

“Oh I don’t know the artists,” Alistair said. “But look. It’s all pointy and shiny. You want to give it a backdrop so people can  _ see _ that it’s pointy and shiny. But do they put it against the arborvitae hedge? Of course not! They slap it down in front of the water fountain. Which, as you can see....”

Dorian blinked. “It doesn’t provide enough contrast.” How had he never noticed before?

“Exactly. And instead they’ve got the wood one by the hedge, which is just stupid. You can hardly see it. Plus it’s taller than the hedge so you get this line -” Alistair chopped at the air, “- which, again, that's just distracting. And don’t even get me started on the style of the actual landscape, which has gone to absolute shit.”

Dorian was blinking rapidly, a little breathless. He had no idea the man could be so passionate, much less so well-versed in the subject. It was... frankly a little alluring. “No, no, please. Do go on.”

“What, really?” Alistair scrunched his nose up.

It was far cuter than it had any right to be. “Absolutely. It’s fascinating.” Dorian reached out and touched his forearm. “I insist.”

“Oh, er. Well.” Alistair turned back to the garden. “This used to be a private mansion, and the grounds were designed by Capability Brown. Anyway, so they grew up over time, got all messy. And then another owner decides she doesn’t like this whole Ferelden nonsense, she wants  _ Orlesian.  _ So she gets Elie Lainé, costs a pretty penny too. Except the owner doesn’t know her arse from a hole in the ground, so she insists on keeping a few of the bigger trees. So now you’ve got this naturalized Ferelden landscape with neo-classical parterre gardens shoehorned in. Totally ridiculous.”

“Totally,” Dorian smiled. 

Alistair shot him a look, as if he wasn’t sure whether he was being made the butt of a joke. Apparently Dorian's smile reassured him, because he continued. “Well, anyway,” he said, a bit calmer. “When they opened the gallery, the gardens were deemed historic. So they just keep trimming the plants without changing anything. But it’s not like a house. These trees and hedges are massively overscale now, nothing at all like what they were intended to be. When they expanded a few years ago, they held a design contest. Perfect opportunity to start with a clean slate. But do they do that?”

“Er, no?”

“Of course not, that would be a  _ good  _ idea. Instead they get Martha Schwartz in, but only for that little bit around the fountain.” Alistair pointed at the offending area, which featured a repeating, asymmetrical paving pattern and a nontraditional fountain which streamed jets of water in high arcs. “Which, of course, doesn’t go with anything at all.”

“I always wondered about that,” Dorian nodded.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to, um. Rant.”

“No, please. It’s fascinating,” Dorian insisted, and he meant it. “How do you know so much about it?”

“Oh,” Alistair shrugged. “I used to study military history. Battles and such. That lead me to landscape history, and then to the history of cities.”

“And from there to city planning.”

Alistair nodded. “Probably should’ve stuck with history. Nowadays I mostly hand out permits and stamp plans.”

“An important job, though.”

Alistair shrugged again. “I suppose. And I’ve plenty of time for hobbies and such. Er. Maker, I’ve been babbling. What about you?”

“I teach applied art at the university,” Dorian said. “I’d be happy to tell you all about it. Over dinner, perhaps?”

“What, really?”

“Is that such a difficult concept?” Dorian's eyes sparkled. To be perfectly honest, he was slightly surprised to hear the words come out of his mouth. But this Ferelden of Many Ishes was turning out to be interesting-ish as well. And his mini-lesson on the sculpture garden had afforded Dorian a chance to examine the muscles bunching under his shirt at close range. Maybe it was the wine, but somehow it seemed a fantastic idea to observe the phenomenon further, perhaps without the troublesome clothes. If nothing else, making friends with Cullen's friend would earn him major brownie points.

“Er, it is a little... um.... Unexpected.” Alistair rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t think I made such a good impression.”

Dorian was tempted to give in to an easy lie. “You did seem a bit nervous,” he hedged. 

“Urgh, Maker, don’t remind me,” Alistair groaned. “I just... when I saw you in the parking lot, you looked so suave and comfortable and just... I mean look at you,” he accused, gesturing up and down. His gaze snagged once again at Dorian's neck.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Dorian smirked.

“Will it?” Alistair’s eyes lifted to meet Dorian's own. The bashfulness was no longer evident; he had a hungry sort of look.

Dorian was suddenly very aware of Alistair’s height, not to mention the breadth of the man’s shoulders. “Well it’ll get you further than you are now.” Dorian reached over to straighten Alistair’s collar, letting his pinky trace along the hollow of his throat. “I suppose it depends on how far you’re looking to get.”

“Maybe....” Alistair cleared his throat. “Maybe we could talk about that.”

“I’d like that, I think.” Dorian watched the indecision flicker across Alistair’s face. “I was planning to get a bite on my way home. You’re welcome to join me.”

Alistair blinked. “What, tonight? Now?”

“Why not?” Dorian shrugged casually. “Unless you have plans.”

“None,” Alistair admitted. “Er. I - alright.” He nodded and smiled, once again shy and blushing. “Why not?”

In practically no time at all they found themselves at a hole in the wall bistro, one of Dorian's regular haunts. Over a nicoise salad and beef carpaccio, they continued to talk, Alistair listening with rapt interest as Dorian spoke about his work. Now that he’d calmed down, Alistair was proving to be polite and intelligent, and he managed to pull off a self-deprecating humor without sounding pathetic. 

And it didn’t hurt that he kept getting distracted, his eyes lingering on Dorian's lips or fingers or throat. 

Alas no meal can last forever, and after the waitress began to pointedly sweep the floor, they took their leave. 

“I’m having a good time,” Dorian said.

“Are you? Well that can’t be right. Should I go back to eating cheese? Or tell the story of puking on the Headmaster’s shoes again?” 

As charming as it was, Dorian was in no mood to dissemble. “Or you could come back to my place,” he said. 

“Or... that.” Alistair took a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh.

Dorian winced. He’d pushed too far. “You don’t have to,” he said quickly. 

“No, I - I want to. Very much. Maker, what you must think of me,” Alistair fretted, hanging his head.

“I think that you’re interesting and attractive. And that's not going to change if you don’t come back with me tonight. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want you to.”

Alistair nodded contemplatively as he examined the streetlamp over Dorian's head. “Yyyyes. Yes, I’ll come. To your place,” he amended hastily.

Dorian laughed. “Alright then. It’s not far.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Dorian's place for lamppost licking.

Alistair followed Dorian in his car. The short drive gave Dorian a chance to consider how the evening should proceed. It was fairly clear the man wanted him, but Dorian wasn’t sure if the tentativeness was because he was still mourning his wife or for some other reason. It was entirely possible that uncertainty was simply Alistair’s default state of being. 

In any event, it would probably be best to take things slow. Perhaps open a bottle of wine, chat some more, see if it led to anything physical. Definitely no pressure. He certainly hadn’t been planning for things to get even this far, so it wasn’t as if he could be disappointed if he didn’t get laid tonight.

At the house, Dorian waited at the front door as Alistair pulled in the drive. “Welcome,” he said, fishing out his house key. “You still sure you want to come in?”

Alistair nodded. “Yes. As long as you’re still sure you want me to.”

“Of course,” Dorian said, unlocking the door. He walked in and held the door open, gesturing inside. 

The problem with Dorian's neat plan for the rest of the evening was that it failed to take into account the fact that another person was involved. Hence, he was a little surprised when, instead of walking past him down the hall, Alistair turned, crowding him against the wall, one hand sliding up Dorian's neck. “I... is this....” He leaned in closer, not finishing his question.

Not that he needed to. “Oh yes,” Dorian breathed.

Another surprise: he expected Alistair’s kiss to be rough, hungry. It was instead achingly tentative, not even a kiss at all. Dorian felt the man’s breath for a long second before he felt skin, and even that was just a wisp of lips swiped across his own, once, then again. He felt as much as heard Alistair’s tiny moan.

And even then, the man held still. It was like he was waiting for something. It occurred to Dorian that he might be one of the first people Alistair had kissed since his wife passed away, if what Cullen had said was anything to go by. 

“We don't have to do anything,” Dorian whispered against his lips. “It’s alright.” 

“Maker, I want to. I want to so badly.” Alistair groaned, shifting his hips. 

The movement ground his now stiff cock against Dorian, drawing a quiet moan.  The sound must have loosened Alistair’s resolve, because he gasped and did it again, harder and with purpose. This time Dorian moved with him, and they moaned together.

Their mouths were still maddeningly close, though Alistair seemed unable to close the distance to a proper kiss. Well, it wouldn't be the first time Dorian had sex without kissing. But it was getting uncomfortably near the first time he was about to have sex in his hallway with the front door wide open. “Let me just -” Dorian turned his head away, trying to push the door closed.

The movement didn't provide enough inertia, leaving it half open. Alistair kicked it shut. The momentary pause seemed to give him confidence. He leaned down and ran his tongue along the hollow of Dorian's throat with a hungry sound.

“Been wanting this all night,” he panted, kissing and sucking as much exposed skin as he could reach. “Feels good,” Alistair said, still sliding his lips on Dorian's neck.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Dorian suggested. “See if we can't make it even better.”

As tempting as it was to fling his clothes off in a dramatic fashion, Dorian instead hung up his suit as quickly as he could. It gave Alistair a chance to remove his own clothing, for one, and Dorian had no desire to deal with wrinkles in the morning. 

He turned around. Alistair was in heather grey boxer briefs, the line of his cock clearly visible. He was, indeed, in good shape. He was fairly swarming with muscles, but they were the type one gets from outdoor endeavors, not the gym. He had tan lines on his arms, like he worked outside frequently. There was a bit of heft to him, a touch of softness, like a bashful farmboy. 

It really, really worked for Dorian. 

Whatever Alistair saw clearly met his approval as well. “Maker, you're gorgeous.” He seemed transfixed. After a moment he took a step forward and knelt in front of Dorian, running his hands through the air an inch or so over his hips. “May I?”

“By all means,” Dorian said.

Alistair slipped his index fingers into the waistband of Dorian's bikini briefs. When the line of Dorian's tan was revealed low on his hips, Alistair groaned. That itself was hot, but then he began to suck along the line of skin, the fabric still bunched around Dorian's ass.

Dorian could feel his erection pressing through the cloth into Alistair’s throat, the man’s adam’s apple bobbing against it. He took a deep breath to steady himself, running his fingers into Alistair’s hair. It had been a while since anyone had worshipped him so thoroughly. 

The man looked up at him, eyes wide and sincere and utterly wrecked with lust. He kept looking at Dorian, even as his lips traveled over skin and cloth, then latched on to the head of Dorian's cock, mouthing through the fabric.

It was intense. Much more so than Dorian had been expecting. His knees went a little weak and he hissed, his fingers clutching Alistair’s hair.

The man moaned, his eyes tightening but not closing, as if he couldn’t look away. Dorian couldn’t seem to, either. He must’ve been leaking a bit, because Alistair groaned again and began sucking in earnest.

Dorian shuddered. “Careful,” he warned.

Alistair nodded and pulled away, concentrating instead on peeling the briefs down. Dorian's cock bobbed in front of him. Alistair immediately leaned in to suck.

“Wait,” Dorian said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want a condom?”

The look of momentary confusion told Dorian all he needed to know about whether Alistair had had sex since his wife; clearly he wasn't used to needing such things. A spike of sadness stabbed at Dorian.

“Do I need one?” Alistair asked hesitantly. 

_ Oh farmboy, you’ve got a lot to learn.  _ Dorian hesitated. He’d gotten tested just recently, but of course everyone would say that. “Probably not, but I don't mind.”

Alistair glanced at his cock, now unsure. “Just... can I....” Instead of sucking, he ran the flat of his tongue along Dorian's length. It felt incredible, almost as good as it did when he began to lave at his balls, moaning like a starving man given food.

“Oh fuck. Oh, god, yes, that's good.” Dorian closed his eyes, concentrating on the sensation. Alistair didn't quite seem to know what he was doing, but his enthusiasm was arousing in itself. 

Dorian guessed that a little direction might be welcome. “Let me touch you,” Dorian groaned. “On the bed.” 

Alistair complied immediately, clambering on to the mattress. Dorian didn’t tease, yanking Alistair’s underwear down. The man’s cock was a respectable size and perfectly formed. He ran a finger along it, base to tip, and Alistair shuddered.

“Feel good?” Dorian did it again, smiling as Alistair’s hips bucked off the bed.

The wordless groan that Alistair gave had more than just pleasure behind it. There was relief there too, maybe a bit of wonder. Something in the shadows of Dorian's awareness murmured a warning, that maybe there was more going on here than casual sex. 

Dorian batted away the misgiving. The man had to break his dry spell at some point; why shouldn't it be with Dorian? At the very least Dorian liked the man. A bit, anyway. Better Dorian than some random person that would take advantage, surely?

He stretched his body over Alistair, hovering briefly before curling around him. He didn't try for a kiss, instead burying his face in the crook of Alistair’s neck. The man did the same, licking and whimpering. Apparently he had a thing for necks.

“Tell me what you want,” Dorian urged. He rolled his hips, smiling against Alistair’s skin when he gasped. “We can do as much or as little as you like.”

Alistair rutted upward, his cock sliding against Dorian's crease. “Everything,” he laughed weakly, the sound ending in a moan. “I’m afraid I - oh Maker - can lack self-control when it comes to certain things,” Alistair admitted. 

Dorian began to laugh, too hard to regain the moment. He pushed himself up. “I rather gathered that this afternoon.”

Alistair looked confused for a second, then nodded wisely. “The cheese gave me away, did it?”

“A bit,” Dorian smiled.

“Well I can be greedy when it comes to cheese,” Alistair said sheepishly. His hands wandered down to cup Dorian's ass, sliding his fingers lightly on the cleft.

“What else are you greedy for?” 

Once again, the shyness seemed to evaporate from Alistair’s features, leaving only need. “You.”

Dorian leaned down, their lips close enough to brush. “You want to fuck me,” he whispered.

“Yes.” The word was nothing but breath. 

“Tempting,” Dorian said. “How do you want it, I wonder. Gentle, hmm? Or rough?”

“I... I can be gentle,” Alistair offered. His body had gone tense.

“I didn’t ask if you  _ can,”  _ Dorian pointed out. “I asked what you want.”

Alistair groaned. With shocking strength, he tilted his hips and rolled, flipping so that Dorian was underneath. Alistair rutted against him, biting his earlobe. “I want it... want to - fuck you. Hard, Maker, I want that, want to - to take you.” The words might have been stammered, but the growl was unmistakable. 

The whole display was intensely arousing. “Well now,” Dorian murmured. “Perhaps that can be arranged.” 

There was always the question of prep. Some men liked to finger him open; it wasn’t Dorian's preference, as he knew his own body better than anyone. But neither did he like his partners to grow bored. Alistair, however, couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Dorian's fingers, rendering the issue moot. Dorian was happy to put on a bit of a show, arching his back as he slid his fingers in and out. 

With a reminder that he was, in fact, allowed to touch, Alistair spread Dorian's cheeks wide, biting his lips. Dorian was tempted to drag the proceedings out, especially once he felt Alistair’s thumb tracing the slick, tight skin stretched around his own fingers.

“I believe you - nnnngh - said something about fucking me?” Dorian panted.

Alistair took the hint, rolling the condom over his cock and then guiding himself in. It took a moment to take it all. Alistair was moving above him, shallow thrusts, gentle despite his earlier assertion. He mouthed the nape of Dorian's neck, breathing hard. 

As Dorian relaxed, Alistair’s hips began to move with greater force. It wasn’t a hard fucking, not yet, but the promise was there. When he scraped his teeth across Dorian's skin, Dorian moaned. “More. God, more.”

Alistair thrust hard, picking up the tempo. “Maker, you feel good. Ngh, wait.” He pulled out.

“What’s wrong?” Dorian was startled; he’d just started to truly enjoy it.

“Roll over. Want to see you.” There was a hint of authority to his tone. 

Dorian shivered, complying at once. He’d barely settled himself before Alistair was guiding his cock back in, grunting with need.

The gentleness was rapidly falling away. Alistair hooked his arms behind Dorian's knees, and within a few seconds he was fucking Dorian with slow, firm strokes. 

“Harder,” Dorian urged.

Alistair responded by snapping his hips. “Yes?”

“Yes. Hard. I want to feel it tomorrow,” Dorian purred. 

He got what he asked for. And then some. Alistair leaned back, pounding fast, hard enough that their skin smacked together.

“Fuck yes,” Dorian said, rolling his head back and letting his eyes close. “Fuck yes. Give it to me.”

A half dozen strokes later, Alistair lunged forward, curling himself around Dorian, burying his face in Dorian's neck. “Dorian. Ah, Dorian.” 

Dorian missed the lack of force, but feeling Alistair’s muscles surging under his skin as he called out Dorian's name wasn’t bad, either. It was actually very good.  _ Very  _ good. Dorian felt the beginning of his orgasm start to build. 

Then suddenly Alistair’s grunts turned to whimpers, and then to whines. Dorian realized that Alistair was close. Much closer than Dorian was. And he showed no signs of slowing down.

There was no way Dorian was going to stop him though, even if it was disappointingly quick. Dorian might’ve been occasionally selfish in bed, but he wasn’t cruel. So Dorian moved with him, moaning in encouragement. “Yes, that's it. That's it.”

With a final sob of Dorian's name, Alistair’s hips lost all rhythm as he came. Dorian waited a moment to see if Alistair would rouse himself, perhaps reciprocate. No such luck. He shivered as the aftershocks ripped through him, continuing to cradle Dorian like some precious thing.

It certainly wasn’t the first time Dorian had a casual lover fall apart on him like this. Usually it made him deeply uncomfortable, if not faintly disgusted. Now, however, he was oddly touched. There was a pang in his stomach that had little to do with lust. Feeling Alistair clutch at him was far more intimate than the sex had been. 

Alistair was still shaking. Without thinking, Dorian brought his hands up, wrapping one around his back and tangling the other in his hair, now faintly damp with sweat. 

“I’m sorry,” Alistair murmured. “Maker, I’m sorry. Can I -” He tried to pull away, but Dorian held him tight.

“Stop apologizing.” Dorian traced circles with his fingers until he felt the muscles in Alistair’s shoulders relax. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“I wanted to make it - good. For you, I mean.”

Dorian took a deep breath. He had to know for sure. “Was this the first, since....?”

He felt Alistair nod. There was a pause. “You knew, didn’t you?”

“I guessed. And don’t even think of saying it was because of the sex. The sex was fantastic.”

“What there was of it,” Alistair grumbled. “I suppose it could’ve been long and boring.”

“Alistair, hush.”

They lay for another minute or so. “I really need to get up. I’m, ah, in danger of making a bit of a mess,” Alistair muttered.

Dorian let go of him. “Bathroom is down the hall.” After the man had stumbled out of the room, Dorian sighed and wiped his hands over his face. There was nothing quite like the letdown of unsatisfying sex. 

Not that it had been entirely disappointing. Still, it was clear his physical satisfaction would have to wait. He briefly considered getting himself off while Alistair was in the bathroom, but there was no telling how long he’d be in there. 

So Dorian sat up, shrugging on his silk robe. Sure enough, Alistair tottered back in a short while later, looking sheepish, hands folded in front of his crotch. 

“Hello,” Dorian said, aiming for a light and humorous tone. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Alistair winced. There was a hint of a smile in there somewhere. He groaned and pitched himself headlong on the mattress, tumbling facedown. “I’m so embarrassed,” he said, his voice muffled.

Dorian laughed. He had a hard time stopping, actually. Alistair laughed as well, which had the added benefit of making his ass twitch. “You are something else,” Dorian snickered. 

“Am I? Is that good or bad?” Alistair turned his head to the side.

“I think it means you defy categorization of all types. Which is a positive, in my book,” Dorian said. He reached over and traced his fingertips down Alistair’s spine. This resulted in another twitch, which was just fine by Dorian. Alistair’s ass was rather unfairly round and luscious. So much so that Dorian hummed in appreciation and repeated the gesture. 

This time it wasn’t so much a twitch as a flexing shiver. Dorian realized Alistair was watching him, so he smirked and pulled his hand away. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

“I don’t mind.” If the glint in his eye was anything to go by, Alistair was enjoying the attention. 

Well well. Perhaps the evening would hold some satisfaction after all. “No?” Dorian asked. He did it again, adding his fingernails for a faint scrape.

Alistair groaned and buried his face in the blankets again. “That feels... really good, actually.”

“Does it?” Dorian asked innocently. He knew full well it did, of course. He did it again.

Alistair arched into his touch like a cat, the muscles in his back surging. “Maker,” he grunted.

It didn't take much for Dorian to get hard again. The question was what to do about it. A bevy of potential solutions came to mind. When Alistair looked over at him, eyes tracing over the bulge poorly hidden under the silk of Dorian's robe, the list expanded. 

He reached tentatively towards Dorian, a question in his eyes. Good lord, he really had that blushing virgin thing down. Dorian nodded his permission. 

His hand closed around Dorian's length, cloth and all. His strokes were a bit clumsy because of the angle, but the fabric made up for it. Dorian bit back a moan, shifting to give him better access.

“That’s good - oh. Just like that.” Dorian leaned back, letting the robe fall open across his chest. “That's nice. Oh, that's perfect.”

Alistair scrambled to a sitting position, just to the side and behind. This was even better. 

Dorian rested his weight on the man’s chest, head lolling on Alistair’s shoulder. “Wait, let me....” He grabbed the lube, pulling his robe away. 

This was best of all: Alistair lazily jacking his cock, slick and slow. Or at least Dorian thought it was best, until Alistair tipped his chin to the side and began kissing him. 

Whatever had held him back in the hallway was apparently no longer an issue. It was slow and deep, the perfect counterpoint. Dorian moaned, letting himself relax against Alistair’s chest.

Alistair broke the kiss, but didn't move away. “I want you - want to make you -”  

The stammering only served to make it hotter. “Fuck yes,” Dorian said, reaching up to grip the back of Alistair’s neck. “You’re going to make me come, Alistair.”

The man whined as if he were the one on the edge. It was phenomenally hot, so much so that Dorian purposefully held himself back. “Is that what you want? To feel me come in your hand? Tell me.” Dorian phrased it like a plea, but it was an order. 

“Yes,” Alistair whispered. “Yes I -- I want that.”

There was no mistaking the throb of an erection against Dorian's back. Sweet maker, did the man really have that much stamina? “Slow,” Dorian said. “Slow, there you go. I feel you getting hard. Can you come again?” 

Alistair whimpered. “Yes,” he admitted. 

Shifting slightly, Dorian turned halfway towards Alistair. The man was, indeed, hard again, leaking even. Dorian's fingers curled around Alistair’s cock.

“Look at me,” Dorian murmured, his voice silky. “That's it. That's it.” He set a pace, and Alistair followed. “So good. So close.” His voice hitched on the last word. 

“Yes,” Alistair said. “P-please.”

That did it. “Oh god,” Dorian groaned. His head fell forward on to Alistair’s shoulder, moaning wordlessly as he covered Alistair’s hand in come. 

“Oh, Maker.” Alistair’s hips started bucking as he fucked into Dorian's hand. Dorian caught his chin, pulling him into a kiss. A brief moment later and he came as well, breathing hard, his whole body tense.

Not for long, though. Soon enough he was boneless, collapsed against Dorian. He laughed weakly. “Did that just happen? I’m fairly certain I just had sex, twice, with the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. That can’t be right.”

“Cheese-induced hallucination, perhaps?” Dorian smiled. He shifted, trying to get some circulation to his right foot, which was starting to fall asleep. But with a handful of bodily fluid and halfway tangled in his robe, he got stuck. Alistair tried to help, it was awkward, and the upshot of it was Dorian smacked his skull into Alistair’s nose, which started bleeding.

Of course, Alistair immediately brought his own extremely messy hands up to his face. At the last possible second, he stopped, paralyzed by both indecision and the ridiculousness of it all. “Help?”

“Vishante kaffas, I’m so sorry,” Dorian apologized, trying not to laugh. “Er, look, just, here,” he said finally, rolling off the bed and guiding Alistair to stand. It took some doing but soon enough they were clean-ish, Alistair perched on the side of the tub, leaned over with his head between his legs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“God, I’m so so sorry,” Dorian said. “Can I get you something? Ice? Indemnity waiver?”

Alistair groaned. “Do  _ not _ make me laugh. Unless you want me to spray these bathroom rugs with blood. They look expensive.” Alistair dragged a toe through the weave.

“Right, no laughing.” Dorian realized he was hovering and still naked. “I’ll... just go throw some clothes on.”

When he came back, Alistair was standing in front of the mirror, dabbing gently at his face. “Not broken, anyway. And the bleeding stopped.” He sounded cheerful enough.

“Well, that's good,” Dorian said, because, well, what else could he say? He paused, trying to decide how to gently suggest Alistair go home. Falling asleep directly after sex was one thing; this was something utterly different. Dorian was fastidious in his routine; he’d never get to sleep now. And Alistair would no doubt just continue to say oddly charming and hilarious things until the wee hours of the morning. They’d probably be giggling like schoolboys all night. And Alistair was so huge, even in Dorian's queen size bed there would hardly be room for both of them. They’d probably end up almost on top of each other. And why on earth did this seem more than halfway appealing all of a sudden?

“I have to go, I’m afraid,” Alistair said to their reflections in the mirror. “I have a dog who almost certainly needs to be let out by now.”

“What? Oh, of course. I understand.” Dorian smiled a warm and utterly fake smile against the pinprick of disappointment. 

It didn’t take long for Alistair to get dressed, nor for them to make their way to the front door. “Er, I liked all but the very end,” Alistair said sincerely.

“I’m rather glad you didn’t like that bit,” Dorian laughed. “Might get some strange ideas otherwise.”

“Do you, uhm....” Alistair examined the doorframe over Dorian's head.

“Want to do this again? I think so,” Dorian said. 

“Oh good,” Alistair visibly slumped with relief. “What with the cheese and the blood and, you know, bad sex, I wasn’t sure.”

“Well you’re really selling it,” Dorian nodded seriously.

Alistair laughed. “I’ll, um, text you?”

Dorian smiled. “Please do.”

Smiling in return, Alistair turned to go. “Well, have a good night.”

“You’re forgetting something,” Dorian said. He grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down for a kiss. 

“Right.” Alistair kissed him. It was hesitant and awkward.

Dorian pulled back. “Alistair, you can relax. We already had sex, remember?”

“We did, didn’t we?” He reached down and cupped the back of Dorian's neck, leaning in slow.

This time it was not hesitant, nor awkward. Dorian wasn’t quite sure what it was, exactly, only that it left him a little breathless and wanting a lot more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to quiteanerdling for walking me through nosebleeds. Also there may be more of this at some point, not sure. Just kinda had to get it out there so I could focus on other things, because once these nerds get in my head there is no getting them out again until I write it down.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian realizes he has no idea what he wants, and that plate mail is sexy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look! More of this! Please send all blame to Alistair Theirin, Denerim Castle, Ferelden.

Sunday morning, Felix came over for a late breakfast. It was an old routine, a holdover from their college days. A little coffee, some fruit, a few indulgent pastries, and the Sunday Times. They didn’t usually talk that much, Felix occasionally asking for help with the crossword, and Dorian chuckling over a particularly snarky arts or restaurant review.

These days, Dorian hoarded these hours like a miser, knowing the demands of married life would inevitably carry Felix away from him. Dorian tried not to think about it, his go-to response for most uncomfortable situations.

Today, it was easy not to dwell. “Vishante kaffas, Felix, you’ve got to read this. They reviewed Guy Fieri’s restaurant. Sweet maker, it is _ruthless._ I love it.” Dorian cackled with glee.

“Who is Guy Fiery?” Felix looked up in confusion.

“Fieri. He’s that spike-haired buffoon who makes a living traveling to diners and pouring gravy down his gullet. Listen to this: ‘When we hear the words Donkey Sauce, which part of the donkey are we supposed to think about?” Dorian was almost wheezing with laughter.

“What?” Felix laughed, still confused.

Dorian's phone pinged. He handed the paper to Felix as he reached for the device. “Read it,” he urged.

There was a text from Alistair. _Is it too soon to say I had a great time last night? They tell me I shouldn’t be too eager._ Dorian smiled and began to reply, but a new text came in. _By “they” I mean Cullen._ Dorian's smile widened, turning into a laugh when yet another text came in. _Also don’t tell him I said that. He’ll give me a lecture._

“What on earth is going on?” Felix peered over the top of the paper.

“Alistair,” Dorian said, holding up a finger. _Never too soon. I did as well. And your secret is safe with me. ;)_ He hit send and turned the volume on his phone down, setting it aside.

Felix’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Really? Didn’t think you exactly hit it off,” he said delicately.

Dorian shrugged and helped himself to another cup of coffee. “Apparently he hadn’t left last night. Met him in the gardens. We went to dinner, actually. Once he calms down he’s quite charming. Rather like a puppy.”

Felix snorted. “How would you know anything about puppies?”

“I watch the Puppy Bowl,” Dorian said, arching an eyebrow.

“So you had dinner. Anything else...?”

Dorian fixed him with a perfectly blank face, sipping his coffee.

“You _didn’t!”_ Felix gasped, slapping the paper down on the table.

Dorian shrugged.

“Were you planning to tell me about this little escapade?” Felix threw a crumpled up napkin at him.

“I was getting to it,” Dorian laughed, holding his hands up against the attack. “I was waiting for you to finish the damn crossword.”

“I rather think you sleeping with Alistair would be reason enough for me to put down my pen,” Felix scoffed. “So what happened?”

Dorian gave Felix a rundown the evening. “And then we came back here. Alistair instigated, and you know I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Felix’s own mouth hung open. “Well... how was it?”

“Interesting. I almost broke his nose,” Dorian said. He recounted the story, drawing howls of laughter from Felix.

“Aside from that,” Felix grinned. “Did he... you know.”

“Did he what?” Dorian laughed.

“Well... know what he was doing, I suppose.”

“He wasn’t the most skilled person I’ve ever met, but it was fine....” A sinking sensation hit him. “Why do you ask?”

Felix blinked. “He didn’t tell you,” he stated, leaning back in his chair. “Damn.”

“What, that he hadn’t been with anyone since his wife? He told me.” Somehow Dorian knew there was more to it, but he clung to the hope that he was wrong.

“You’re also the first _man_ he’s been with,” Felix said. “Cullen told me. He’s so awkward I just assumed he’d have blurted it out.”

“No, he didn’t mention.” Dorian frowned. It felt like a nest of snakes had taken up residence in his stomach. And that made no sense. What difference did it make? A tiny voice inside him asked:  what if Alistair was simply looking to sleep with a man? As in, any man, and not Dorian in particular?

The thought left Dorian feeling cold. He had sudden flash of memory from last night, of the way Alistair hadn’t wanted to kiss him at first. Dorian shivered. It shouldn’t matter. It was just a bit of fun. Wasn’t it?

“You alright?” Felix asked, looking at him.

“What? Of course,” Dorian lied, smiling easily. He could tell Felix didn’t buy it -- they’d known each other too long -- but neither did the man press him on it.

Felix left not long after, pretending he needed to stop for groceries on the way home. Dorian knew it was because of his own increasing levels of distraction. Dorian had, out of habit, shunted yesterday’s encounter into the “fun but meaningless” category. Not that he intended to drop Alistair like a hot rock -- if the opportunity presented itself again, he’d see the man. Probably. But he wasn’t planning to go out of his way to do so. There was a big difference in taking pleasure when it was offered and seeking it out.

It had been a long, long time since he’d tread those waters. When he first came south, Dorian had flung himself headlong into that sea, so to speak, reveling in the ability to have an actual romance. He indulged in a series of relationships, all of which ended in a blaze of dramatic glory. It was a great deal of fun; even the heartache had a kind of bittersweet appeal.

Then he met Max. That was something else altogether. Dorian thought he was it, the love of his life. And maybe he was. There was no question, however, that it didn’t work. And not because of some explosion of infidelity or abuse. Their end came in the pedantic nitty-gritty of trying to fit two disparate lives together. It simply hadn’t worked, no matter how he and Max had tried. Love wasn’t enough.

Of course it took almost two years of attempts to ‘take breaks’, attempts to be friends-with-benefits, and attempts to be just friends, before Max finally pulled the plug for good. That was nearly three years ago. The first year and a half, Dorian had frantically dated, trying to recreate the relationship with someone else. This had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that Max had gone on to get engaged, and then married, with dizzying speed. Eventually Dorian decided to just... stop. Oh, he still found men to have sex with, but he gave up on romance. Too much trouble. And frankly, it had been a huge relief, by and large. The occasional hook-up took the edge off of being lonely, and in the meantime he was free to live his life as he saw fit.

Alistair was meant to be no different. He _wasn’t_ different. Was he? They certainly had very little in common, aside from Cullen. And yet. Dorian pottered about, picking up the dishes and cleaning the kitchen, memories from the evening before coming to him in bursts. He felt restless, unfocused. He checked his phone -- there was no reply from his last text. His fingers itched to send a message, perhaps a question, something to prod Alistair into responding, but that was surely a stupid move; the sensation was too close to a craving to be safe.

No. A run was what he needed. A nice long one, something challenging, something to get him out of his own head.

A few minutes later he was jogging out his front door, heading to Calenhad Park. Dorian didn’t often run in the park itself, usually sticking to the paved walkways around the perimeter. But perhaps a more technical run along the paths would do him some good. Certainly wouldn’t hurt his quads any; he’d been taking it too easy of late.

He turned the corner into the entrance and stopped dead. The parking lot was absolutely packed with cars, and there were tents and crowds of people in... armor?

Dorian surveyed the scene, trying to make out what in blazes was going on. Some sort of carnival or something, clearly. It seemed to be contained to the meadows, though, so perhaps the trails would still be -

“Dorian?” From a few yards away, someone wearing armor and a winged helmet was waving, despite the young girl trying to strap bits of metal to his forearm. “It _is_ you!” The helmet was lifted off, and Alistair grinned at him. He trotted over, clanking like a tinker’s truck.

It was just about the most absurd thing Dorian had ever seen. And it was definitely the most absurd thing that had ever turned him on. “Fancy meeting you here.” Dorian felt his face twist into a foolish grin.

“Yes, it’s Tourney. We’ve been planning it for ages,” Alistair said, waving vaguely at the field.

“Clearly,” Dorian nodded. “And you are....” He looked closer at the armor. The chestpiece had something with wings on it, and underneath was a tunic sort of thing made of chains, alternating bluish and silver stripes.

“A Grey Warden, actually. Er.” He shrugged and laughed nervously, face flushing as though he just now realized that standing around in armor was not exactly standard practice.

“Of course,” Dorian smiled, trying to put him at ease. Without thinking, Dorian tapped the breastplate, surprised to find the ring of metal against his fingernail, rather than the thud of plastic. His eyebrows shot up. “Sweet Maker, is this real?”

“Well it’s steel, if that's what you’re asking,” Alistair said.

Dorian didn’t even think before letting his hand drift down the man’s chest to his stomach. “These are metal too?” Even through the rings he could feel Alistair’s muscles. It was alarmingly sexy. Dorian was suddenly very, very glad he’d worn a jock under his running shorts. “How do you -”

“Knight-Captain!” The girl who had been helping Alistair called out in exasperation. “We’re going to be late.”

“A moment, squire,” Alistair called back, frowning. He turned to Dorian, his face all hard lines and authority. A second later it dissipated, and he looked abashed. “Maker, sorry, sorry. What you must think of me,” he muttered.

“I think I understand why you’re in such good shape,” Dorian said, keeping his voice low.

“Right, well. You’re going for a run?” Alistair looked down at Dorian's clothes, biting his lip.

Dorian raised onto his toes, watching as Alistair’s gaze trained on his calves. “As long as the battle doesn’t bleed over to the trails, yes.”

“Good lord no. But -- I do have to go.” He rolled his shoulders. “The battle awaits and all that. You’re - erm - welcome to come watch, after your run. Er. These tend to go on for a bit.”

Under no circumstances was Dorian going to watch a bunch of people hack at each other with play swords. It was ridiculous. Absolutely. Which made the words that came out of his mouth all the more puzzling. “I’d planned for about an hour, will you still be... going?”

“An hour? You’re going to run for an _hour?”_ Alistair boggled.

“Well _you’re_ prancing about in a hundred pounds of steel,” Dorian laughed.

The squire harumphed, loudly.

Sighing, Alistair began to back away, holding his arm out for the bit of leather the girl was holding. “Yes. We’ll still be going. Probably. If you change your mind though, no hard feelings, I totally understand.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Dorian smiled.

Alistair gave a nod and a cheeky grin before cramming his helmet back on. He picked up a shield and strode toward the field, the squire trotting behind him, plucking at various buckles and straps.

Dorian headed towards the trailhead, shaking his head in disbelief. The day couldn’t possibly get any more ridiculous, could it? Hopefully the run itself would hold no surprises.

The challenge of dodging tree roots and uneven terrain was intended to keep Dorian's mind fully in the present. One or two times the sound of clashing metal and cheering wafted through the trees, and Dorian's mind began to wander back to the feeling of hard muscle under the metal links, or the flash of authority that crossed Alistair’s face. The third time it happened, the daydream mixed with a memory from the night before: Alistair licking his neck in the hallway as they ground against each other.

Dorian stepped wrong on a pebble and tumbled. He rolled with the movement, scraping his leg as a tinge of pain registered in his foot. Swearing, he slung himself into a sitting position. Gingerly, he pulled off his shoe, probing at his foot and wiggling his toes. Probably not broken, just a minor sprain.

“This is why you don’t run on trails, Pavus.” He sighed, wiping a trickle of sweat from his temple. He didn’t have his phone on him. Not that he couldn’t walk home - it was only about a mile to the park, but that was on top of the two miles back along the trail to the entrance. A long way to hobble, and Dorian had learned the hard way that running through an injury, even a minor one, could mean weeks of recovery.

Perhaps Alistair would have a phone he could use? It was the best option available, at any rate. Dorian opted not to go back along the trail, instead risking the walk through the woods, towards the sounds of battle. It had to be closer than the winding path, anyway.

A few minutes and several dozen bouts of swearing later, Dorian broke through the trees. No one seemed to notice; all attention was on the field. Most of the spectators had pop-up tents and camp chairs, but there was a bank of bleachers in the middle, so Dorian limped toward that.

Wincing, he sat on the lowest bench, propping his leg up. He was keenly aware that he looked out of place in his running gear. The man sitting next to him gave him a look before scootching down the bench a bit to make room. “You all right?” He was in costume, though Dorian could only begin to guess its significance. It was mostly fabric and leather, with an insignia of a lion on the front.

“Fell on the path,” Dorian shrugged, squinting at the field. There didn’t seem to be much going on at the moment, just a couple of people milling about the center of the field, and there was no sign of Alistair. “My friend is here. I was hoping he’d loan me his phone when he was done with... er, the festivities.” He nodded at the meadow.

“Your friend?” The man sounded skeptical, raising his eyebrows and glancing behind them at a woman seated on the next riser. “You come to Tourney often, do you?”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Well clearly,” he drawled. “Can’t you tell? I’m a runner from Ancient Tevene.”

The woman burst out laughing. “Nice,” she said, sliding down to cram herself in between Dorian and the man. “Ignore Gaspard, he’s being a prick because his side lost,” she said, elbowing the man, who grumbled. “I’m Harding. With the Inquisition,” she added, as if that meant anything to Dorian. “You missed the grand melee, I’m afraid. Who’s your friend? I’m sure I can spot him.”

“Er, Alistair?” Dorian said, realizing he didn’t actually know the man’s last name.

_“You’re_ friends with _Alistair?”_ Gaspard scrunched up his face in disbelief.

Harding’s eyes were wide too, though she smiled. “Well, you’re in for a treat. Alistair’s gonna be busy for a bit. Might as well get comfortable and enjoy the show. You want a bottle of water? I got plenty.” Without waiting for an answer, she rifled through a leather bag and handed him a bottle before getting one for herself.

“Thanks,” Dorian said. “Er. So. What’s going on, then?” He cracked the seal on the bottle and drank about half of it in one go.

“The last two teams still on the field send out a champion to decide the whole thing in a one-on-one combat exhibition. It’s a little weird but it’s good for the spectators,” she said, shrugging. “Otherwise the melee just gets bogged down, people get bored of watching. This year it’s the Wardens and the Inquisition,” Harding explained. “See? There’s Alistair now.” She pointed across the field, Alistair strode behind his squire, who was now holding a blue and white banner.

Alistair was carrying a sword, sheathed on his hip, with a shield on his other arm. From the other direction a woman was striding behind her own squire, carrying a banner which matched Harding’s costume. “Oh!” Dorian blinked in surprise. “How interesting. Wait - those weapons aren’t real, are they?”

Gaspard snorted.

Harding ignored him. “Well they’ll leave a hell of a bruise, that's for sure,” she laughed. “But they’re not sharp. This is gonna be great, though. Alistair and Cass -- sorry, Cassandra -- they’re both really really good.”

Scoffing, Gaspard rolled his eyes. “Michel would’ve -”

“Will you shut up about him already?” Harding laughed. “If the Chevaliers want to get Michel out there so bad, you shouldn’t crumple like a house of cards the second you get on the field. This is, what, the fourth Tourney you’ve lost?”

Dorian could barely grasp what was going on, but he liked Harding already. “So, how does one win, exactly?”

Harding’s eyes were trained on the field. “It’s sort of like fencing, but, y’know. Not. That guy in the middle, he’s like - what’s the word - an umpire. He judges whether something counts as a wound or not. Once you get too many, you lose. Or if you get disarmed and can’t recover. Or if you get put in certain positions. Or you could yield.”

“Yield? Does that happen?” Dorian asked.

Harding shook her head. “Not really.”

The squires were marching off the field, and Alistair and his opponent drew swords. The sounds of the crowd died down quite a bit as the fighters circled each other.

It was nothing like the movies. Not that Dorian tended to watch movies that featured swordfighting, but he’d seen a bit here and there. This was much more tentative, flurries of frenzied action against the backdrop of long pauses where the two warriors circled.

There was a fair bit of grappling, which Dorian also did not expect. Whoever the woman was, she was nearly the same height as Alistair, breaking out of his holds with ease. Every once in a while the referee would shout something, or the crowd would cheer or gasp.

It was absolutely enthralling. Dorian found himself cringing and clapping along with everyone else. At one point, Cassandra stumbled backwards on a patch of loose earth when Alistair rushed her; unable to catch herself, she landed on her back. The crowd went crazy, but Alistair immediately tapped his shield with his sword.

“He’s halting the combat!” Harding squealed. “Oh my god, what a _gentleman,”_ she marveled. Alistair reached down and helped Cassandra to rise.

“What an _idiot,”_ Gaspard grumbled.

The battle began anew. It was clear even to Dorian that both of the fighters were getting tired. Their weapons were lower, their movements more jerky.

From Harding’s play-by-play, Dorian gleaned that Alistair was losing, though not by much. Still, one more major hit and he would be out.

Cassandra rushed at Alistair, looking for all the world like a freight train bearing down on him. He dodged to the side, pivoting against the inertia of her shield, and attempted to trip her.

It almost worked; Cassandra did indeed go down, but she took Alistair with her, and in the process managed to disarm him as well, his shield and sword falling to the side.

There was a blur of movement. Cassandra raised her sword, but before it could be brought to bear, Alistair bucked his hips, throwing her off balance and flipping them both. It was almost precisely the move he’d used on Dorian in bed the night before, leaving him a bit breathless on the sidelines. Quick as lightning, Alistair pulled a wooden dagger from the back of his belt and stabbed it at Cassandra’s head, stopping a few inches above her throat.

“Match!” The referee called, pointing at Alistair.

The crowd went absolutely wild. Harding hopped up and down, cheering and whistling, despite the fact that her teammate had been bested. “Oh my god I can’t believe he did it! With a main gauche no less! That's crazy!”

Dorian joined in as best he could, though without the hopping part, of course, and also with no idea of what Harding was on about. He couldn’t help but grin, watching as Alistair wearily helped Cassandra to rise. They took off their helmets and shook hands. People were already starting to mill about, either rushing the field or hitting the vendor tents or bathrooms.

“Hey, I’ll go tell him you’re here,” Harding said, cocking her head toward the field. She took a few steps and then trotted back. “Uh, what’s your name?”

“Dorian,” he said. “And thank you!” he called out.

Not wanting to be caught staring, Dorian took the opportunity to look at his foot again. He flexed and stretched it -- there was no bruising, though he was a little swollen. Probably just needed some ice and to be wrapped.

There was a blur of motion to his left and he turned just as Alistair bore down on him. “Dorian, Lace said you were hurt - are you okay?” The man clanked down on one knee and peered at Dorian's foot in concern, putting one hand at the small of Dorian's back. It was altogether cozy.

Dorian laughed. “I’m sorry, didn’t I just see you in a swordfight? It’s fine, Alistair, I just landed on it wrong and don’t want to walk all the way home. Can I borrow your phone? I’m sure Felix can give me a lift.”

“Oh. Right. My phone,” Alistair said. “Are you sure? There’s a first aid station just there. Or I could give you a ride myself?”

Dorian was keenly aware of the dozen or so well-wishers hovering nearby, waiting to talk to Alistair. “Er, I don’t want to be any trouble, and I’m sure you’ve got lots still to do here.”

Disappointment washed across Alistair’s face, along with a hefty cloud of doubt. “I... do, rather. And it takes a minute to get out of all this. Can’t drive in plate armor, I’m afraid.”

Dorian felt like he’d just stepped on a puppy’s tail, but he really did need to get home. Even if he wasn’t injured, he was in a clammy singlet and running shorts. Not for the first time, he heard the words coming out of his mouth before he had a chance to think. “How long will it take, do you think?”

“What?”

“Until you’re done.” Dorian gestured at the proceedings around them. “I assume you’ll be famished after all this. We could get something to eat, perhaps. I could text you, once I’ve seen to my foot.”

Watching the hope bloom on Alistair’s face was starting to become addictive, Dorian realized. “A - a few hours,” Alistair stammered. “Is that all right?”

“That sounds delightful,” Dorian smiled. Inwardly, there was a cloud of misgivings all sending up signal flares: _what are you doing, he’s not your type, Cullen will kill you if this goes badly, you don’t want to get involved, remember?_ It wasn’t that Dorian was unaware of these thoughts, just that they seemed very faint, somehow washed out by the blinding happiness that seemed to burst forth from Alistair’s goofy grin. What was most apparent was that it was impossible for Dorian _not_ to smile in response, and maybe that was the only thing that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lazy mashup of LARP and historic re-enactment. I couldn't make up my mind. [shrugs] Also at least two more chapters coming, so.... yeah. DORISTAIR!! WOOOO!!!
> 
> Also the restaurant review is [a real thing.](http://www.nytimes.com/2012/11/14/dining/reviews/restaurant-review-guys-american-kitchen-bar-in-times-square.html)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair finds himself on date #2 with Dorian. Also heads up for switching perspectives, because I love making things harder on myself, and angst, because I love being miserable.

Alistair helped Dorian limp to his Range Rover, popping the back so Dorian could sit while he waited for Felix. Alistair fussed in his gear, looking for something that would help: more water, or an ace bandage, _something._ A small cloud of people still hovered about -- he never could manage to get a moment alone at Tourney. ‘Course that might’ve had something to do with this being the first he’d attended since --

“Alistair,” Dorian's voice gently broke his stream of thought. “I’m fine, really. Felix will be here in no time. Please, you’ve done enough. Go. Enjoy the spoils of victory.”

Maker, he was close, those silver eyes staring up at him. Alistair raised his hand without thinking, catching himself before he could cup Dorian's jaw. Instead he balled his fist and brought it down to his side. He saw Dorian's eyes flick down to his lips, and then over his shoulder at the people watching. Swallowing hard, Alistair leaned in. “I - I think there are other things I should enjoy much more.”

Dorian's eyebrow quirked up. “Is that so? Maybe you can tell me about them later.”

Would it be so bad to kiss him? By Andraste, he wanted to, so, so badly. A horn sounded across the field, and one of his fellow Wardens cleared his throat rather loudly. “Later,” Alistair said.

Dorian gave him an encouraging half smile. Alistair regretfully turned away, and managed to limit himself to two wistful glances back at the man perched in the back of his car. And on only one of those occasions did he stumble slightly, which for him was nearly a record.

“Alistair, what the hell is going on? Who is he?” Stroud stepped in line, matching Alistair’s stride.

“Just - a friend. Of Cullen's. Well not Cullen, exactly. His fiancee. Cullen's fiancee’s best friend.”  Alistair pulled off his leather gauntlets. “We met last night. Maker, I just realized how awful I must smell.”

“You and he didn’t -” Carver left it hanging.

“Didn’t what?” Alistair frowned.

“Will you guys stop yapping,” Clarel sniffed. “Come on, we’re already late to the closing ceremony.”

It was a big deal, winning the Tourney. First time in three years anyone had managed to beat the Inquisition. Of course he’d missed last year. Not that he’d wanted to miss it. Blighters wouldn’t let him join in the melee, said it was too dangerous, that grief made people sloppy, that he should sit one out, it was what she would’ve wanted. Like he’d have been able to sit on the sidelines and watch, all alone. So he didn’t go at all, which, in retrospect, was almost as painful.

“You alright?” Carver asked quietly.

Alistair glanced back a final time. He was halfway across the field by now. Felix had pulled up, and he and Dorian were standing there, watching him. Dorian waved.

All bleak thoughts dissipated. Alistair waved back, grinning. This time he stumbled for real, knocking into Stroud.

“What in the Maker is wrong with you?” Stroud shot a glance at Clarel.

“Nothing. Nothing’s the matter. I’m doing great,” Alistair said, and he meant every word.

Even though winning the Tourney was a big deal, and being the Champion to do so an even bigger deal, Alistair had a hard time paying attention during the closing ceremony. There were many prizes to be awarded for each of the single events. His mind kept wandering back to seeing Dorian sitting there, in those skimpy running clothes, looking up at him with those eyes that seemed to sparkle. And then his mind would flip even further back to the previous evening, and he’d get even more distracted. Clarel kept prodding him with her elbow as he stood waiting for the cup to be awarded.

As was traditional, the previous Champion came forth, holding the comically tiny trophy cup. And as always, everyone laughed -- well they would, it was the size of a teacup. Alistair dutifully rose and accepted the teensy prize, shaking Cassandra’s hand, and then everyone snapped a bunch of photos and it was done.

“Maker, I cannot wait to get out of this gear,” Alistair groaned. “I’ll have bruises from here to Sunday.”

“It _is_ Sunday,” Cassandra reminded him.

“Next Sunday, then.”

“And I as well. That last move was... surprising.” She gave him a nod of acknowledgment.

“Well you know me. Fortune favors the bold,” Alistair said. He looked around the crowd, wondering how soon he could leave.

Cassandra cleared her throat. “Alistair. Would you - care to get a drink?”

Something in her voice sounded funny. Tense. Well, more tense than usual. Carver and Harding wandered up just then, hovering nearby in that way people do when a large event breaks up.

“Ooh, I could go for a pint,” Carver said.

Cassandra shot him a glance that could’ve felled a druffalo, and with a sinking sensation Alistair understood the reason for her tone. She wasn’t just asking what he was doing, she was asking him for a _drink._

“Or not,” Carver said.

“Oh, um. I. Have plans. Rain check?” Alistair tried to find a safe place to look, settling on a spot on Cassandra’s forehead.

“Ooh, with _Doooorian?”_ Harding giggled. “I thought I was going to have to wipe his chin for him when he was watching you.”

Cassandra’s face relaxed into something in between disappointment and understanding. “Ah. I see. Well, if you change your mind....” She tilted her head in farewell and walked away.

“Wait, what? Oh, shit, did I just screw that up for you?” Harding’s eyes went wide.

“Um, no I think I rather did,” Alistair said. “But it’s fine.”

“So, no drinks then?” Carver’s shoulders slumped.

“What am I, chopped liver?” Harding stuck her hands on her hips.

“I have a feeling you’re buying the drinks tonight, good sir. Enjoy.” Alistair clapped Carver on the shoulder, gave a nod to Harding, and slunk off before anyone else could stop him.

By Andraste, it felt good to get out of the armor. Even without Threnn’s help, he managed to get it off in a few minutes. Always easier in this direction. Plus she was a terrible squire, anyhow. Too bossy.

Soon enough Alistair was on the road. Truth be told, he did feel a bit guilty. Going out after Tourney was a tradition -- probably why Cassandra had asked. He’d been looking forward to it, actually. But that was before he’d met Dorian.

Maker but the man was entrancing. Intoxicating, even. How was it remotely possible that he wanted to see Alistair again? He’d found countless ways to humiliate himself the night before, and yet somehow this bewitching, brilliant, and _oh just admit it_ dead sexy man wanted to see him.

A memory of Dorian moaning beneath him exploded in Alistair’s mind. He gripped the wheel very hard and took a deep breath, lest he drive clean off the road.

Clearly, the only answer was that it was a mistake, that Dorian would eventually realize what a buffoon he’d slept with, and move on. Alistair didn’t care. He’d take it, if it meant there was even the remotest possibility of feeling Dorian's hips sliding against his own once more.

Once home, Alistair was greeted with a happy, waggling butt, attached to an equally happy, waggling dog. “Hello Buddy!”

The dog whuffed and gave a little hop with its front paws. Alistair slung his gear bags down and knelt, arms open. Buddy enthusiastically licked his face.

“Okay, that's... no that's enough, good boy,” Alistair said, smiling through a grimace as he pushed the dog away and wiped at his face.

The dog pawed at the gear bags and whined.

Just like that, all of his happy excitement got shunted aside. Maker, would it never end? “Sorry, boy. Couldn’t take you this year.” They’d always taken the dog to Tourney, ever since he was a pup. One of them would watch him while the other was busy. Buddy loved it, all the attention and sounds and smells and other dogs and inevitable treats Surana would slip him when Alistair wasn’t looking.

Alistair sighed and scritched the dog behind the ears. It had been 17 months since he’d lost Surana. How any period of time could simultaneously feel like a lifetime and a second was beyond his comprehension, but there it was. It didn’t hurt, exactly, not anymore. But it didn’t feel good, either.

Maybe he should just stay home, make an excuse. Maybe Dorian would change his mind, would decide not to text him. Maybe Alistair had misunderstood the whole thing, and Dorian didn’t intend to text him at all. Maybe -

“Maybe I should just take a damned shower and stop thinking so much,” Alistair said aloud. Buddy waggled. Good enough.

The hot water did feel good. His shoulders were especially tight; he hadn’t trained enough. Ah well. Alistair carefully avoided doing anything close to thinking while he got clean. First he had a quick wank; no better way to relax, right? And it did keep his mind blissfully blank for a few minutes. The problem was what came after; anxieties crowded thick and close.

He had a technique to nip that in the bud, though. Alistair began to narrate his own actions, forcing himself to focus on the present. It also helped to do a funny voice, so he imitated one of the monks he’d grown up with, a kindly geezer from Antiva with something approaching logorrhea. “Now I am squirting the shampoo,” Alistair said, creaking his voice. “Now I am rubbing it back, and forth. Back, and forth. Now I am rinsing.... Now, it is in my eyes. It hurts, ow.”

Well. It was stupid, but it worked.

When he got out of the shower, he felt good. Just fine. He checked his phone out of habit.

_Still interested in a victory meal, oh great warrior?_

“Ohhhhhhhhh Maker.” Alistair felt his pulse lurch into double-time. Could he do this? _Should_ he do this?

The answer came to the back of his mind: _of course you should._ Surana wouldn’t want him to sit at home, sulking. Hell, she probably wouldn’t even mind him getting to have sex with Dorian; she always was much lustier and bolder than Alistair. Before he could get bogged down, he tapped out a reply. _Only if you’re ambulatory._

Alistair began to root through his bureau, grumbling at himself for not doing laundry. Maker, how was he down to one pair of smalls again? His phone blinked.

_Oh yes. Just needed an ace bandage and a bit of ice. But if you’d rather rest, I totally understand._

“Damn. Damn damn damn.” Alistair closed his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath, then let it out. _I’d like to see you._ Send.

Another deep breath. The phone was vibrating in his hand before he’d exhaled. _Just tell me where._

Shaking a little, Alistair gave him the name of his favorite pub. He said a prayer to Andraste as he opened his closet, hoping there was something decent and clean.

Apparently, there were limits to the Maker’s grace. All of his clean button-downs were missing buttons, or were too tight in the arms, or loose in the torso. One managed all three transgressions at once, which seemed quite a feat. Alistair vowed to give the garment an Avaar funeral.

Increasingly frantic, he found an old v-neck sweater in his bottom drawer. It was too tight to wear with a collared shirt underneath, but he could get away with a t-shirt, right? That was a thing people wore? And the jeans slung on the back of the chair were clean-ish. He hadn’t worn them to do any gardening, at least. He gave them a sniff test and shrugged.

Dressed, he headed towards the front door. Buddy followed him, waggling in that hopeful way that broke Alistair’s heart. “Sorry, buddy. I promise I’ll be home soon, okay? Not going to be late again,” he said, hoping he was lying.

Buddy drooped. If he’d had a tail of any significance, it would’ve been dragging between his legs.

“Oh, come on,” Alistair pleaded. “You’ll be all right. I’ve got a date. Another one. That's good, right?”

The dog perked up, pawing at his chest.

“Paws off the merchandise,” Alistair said. He smooched the dog’s head. “Be home soon, there’s a good boy.”

Presumably, there was a drive to the Redcliffe Arms. Alistair wouldn’t presume to know; one minute he was walking out his door, the next he was finding a parking space. Well at least he didn’t have to narrate the whole trip.

He pushed open the doors at 7:57. Isabela was at the hostess stand. “Ali!” she crowed, coming round to smother him in a hug.

“Hello, luv,” he murmured.

“Here for a drink?”

“Er. No.” He rolled his shoulders, attempted to stand straight. “Meeting someone actually.” He peered into the dining area.

“Oh?” Isabela winked and bumped him with her hip. “Well I’m afraid she’s not here yet,” she said, reaching for some menus. “Would you like a table or a booth?”

“Er, it’s a he, actually.” Alistair continued to peer into the dining room, hoping the heat in his face wasn’t actually visible.

No such luck. Isabela growled seductively. “Don’t tell me that dreamboat of a Tevinter is waiting for you.”

“Um,” Alistair began, but Isabela cut him off, reaching up to cup one cheek with her hand.

“Oh honey,” she said. “You are _so_ going to get laid.”

He batted her hand away. “What’s to say I haven’t already?” he asked, trying for a dignified expression.

She gasped in delight. “Really?” she squealed, clapping.

“Well my chances of a repeat performance are going down the longer I keep him waiting, so.” Alistair held his hands out, appealing to her goodwill.

She yanked him by one hand, stomping through the dining room to the back corner and fairly flinging him into the booth.

Dorian was there, of course he was, nursing a martini with his foot propped up on the bench seat. “Well hello,” he laughed.

“Hi,” Alistair grinned, sliding into the seat.

“Your usual, serah?” Isabela drawled in an overly-subservient tone.

“Er,” Alistair agreed, with a glance at Dorian. Not that it mattered; Isabela was gone before the word had left his mouth.

“I take it this is your usual haunt?” Dorian smiled. Andraste’s ass, but he looked good.

“Yes,” Alistair admitted. Damn, he should’ve suggested someplace nicer. Maybe that Orlesian restaurant? Or the Rivaini place? Maker, he was terrible at this.

“I like it,” Dorian said, looking around in approval. “Clean, cosy. Familiar,” he laughed.

“Definitely the third,” Alistair said. “Isabela’s an old friend.”

“I rather guessed,” Dorian drawled. Before Alistair could panic that perhaps Izzie was _too_ familiar, Dorian continued. “Makes me miss home, being manhandled by the maitre’d at my favorite bistro.”

“Oh?” Alistair clung to the conversational offering like it was a lifeline.

“Yes. Vincenzo. He was a little dictator. Treated me like a prince. Even after -- well. That's the hallmark of a good server, isn’t it?”

“Talking about me, are you?” Isabela set a brown ale in front of Alistair.

Alistair struggled to find something appropriate to say. Before he had to, Dorian was talking. “Only good things, my dear.”

“Ooh, I like this friend, Ali. He can stay.”

“Well that's gratifying,” Dorian laughed.

Isabela set down some menus. “Steak and kidney pie tonight, luv. And bangers. We all know how much you love those.” With a wink at Alistair, she sauntered off, hips swaying.

“Were you waiting long?” Alistair cringed.

“Only a few minutes,” Dorian smiled. “And I have to say, someone here knows their way around a martini.”

“Oghren knows his booze,” Alistair laughed. He was suddenly famished. He hadn’t eaten since noon, and had fought in two re-enactments since then. They didn’t normally bring bread to the table here, but maybe if he begged, Izzie would make an exception.

“I hope you don’t mind - I put in an order for an appetizer for us to share before you got here,” Dorian said, as if reading his mind.

“Oh thank Andraste, I’m starving,” Alistair sighed in relief. “How is your foot?”

“I’m sure it’ll be right as rain in a few days,” Dorian said. He leaned back against the seat, sighing wistfully. “If I hadn’t been so distracted by a certain Knight-Captain, perhaps I would have kept my balance,” he noted.

“Oh Maker,” Alistair muttered, burying his face in his hands. “Forget Threnn ever called me that.”

Dorian laughed. “Why would I want to do that? I assume you earned the title?”

Alistair heaved a sigh. It was bound to come out at some point. Not like historic re-enactment was a hobby most people thought worthwhile. “Well _yes_ but -- I mean....” His voice died away helplessly.

Dorian raised his eyebrows, encouraging him to go on.

Alistair made a show of looking all around. “Are there cameras on me or something? You can’t tell me someone like you thinks it’s interesting.”

Laughing, Dorian leaned back. “What do you mean, someone like me?”

Alistair waggled his hands at Dorian. “All suave and handsome and -- and --"  _Not an enormous dork,_ is what he thought.

“Well I admit I never considered the hobby,” Dorian said. “That was before I saw you dashing about with sword and shield. Quite... well let’s just call a spade a spade, shall we? It was sexy as hell.”

Alistair had taken a sip of ale when Dorian had gone at a loss of words, and ended up spluttering his drink by the time Dorian finished speaking. In dismay, he regarded the beer that had beaded up on his sweater, even as Dorian laughed. “I’m sorry, would you like to retract that statement?”

“Not a chance,” Dorian said, continuing to laugh.

“Having fun, boys?” Isabela sidled up and put down an enormous cheese platter.

“Well _I_ am,” Dorian grinned.

“Oh my god I love you,” Alistair breathed, looking at the appetizer.

Isabela gave a tinkling laugh. “Ali, it’s traditional to wait past the first date to talk like that.”

“It’s our second,” Dorian said with a grin.

“Please take some so I don’t look like an ungrateful glutton,” Alistair pleaded, pushing the platter towards Dorian.

As Dorian helped himself to a few slices of cheese, Isabela put a hand on her hip. “So, I have to ask. How did you meet?”

“Cullen set us up,” Alistair said, popping a chunk of cheddar into his mouth. He fought the urge to moan in delight. “He wouldn’t shut up about his man’s best friend.”

“And here I thought it was Felix singing _your_ praises,” Dorian smirked.

“I thought that only happened in sitcoms,” Isabela scoffed. “Well, would you like to put in an order, or is watching Alistair eat all the cheese sufficient?”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Alistair groaned. “I’ve been in armor all day Izzie.”

“Oh! Was - was it Tourney?” She looked concerned.

Dorian, thankfully, wasn’t looking at her. “It was, and a certain cheese-loving Knight Captain won the day, so I’m sure he’s worked up an appetite.”

There was a tightness around Isabela’s eyes as she looked at Alistair, a buried sympathy. Maker. Not now. “I’ll - I’ll have the bangers, Izzie. And another,” he said, holding up his pint, willing her not to ask any more questions about his day.

Her face smoothed out to a more neutral expression when she turned to Dorian and took his order for broiled salmon and a sauvignon blanc.

“So,” Dorian said when she left. “Tell me all about how one learns how to wield a blade with such panache.”

Still not quite believing that Dorian was really interested, Alistair explained about the Tourney, how it was different from a rendezvous, just a chance for locals to show off and have fun, how he’d started with fencing in boarding school and one of the monks had taught him the basics of longsword fighting.

Alistair wasn’t used to talking about himself so much. Was he blathering? Surely, he must be. “And now I’ve spilled beer on myself and bored you to tears. Not quite sure how to top that.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Dorian drawled, giving him a naughty wink.

It was impossible. Dorian was laughing and smiling and looking at him _that way._ Alistair had never really dated, per se. He’d known Surana for years, just good friends, until one day they’d gone apple picking with their friends and suddenly ended up kissing under a Macintosh tree.

Still, just because Alistair was inexperienced didn’t mean he was naive. Okay he was naive, true, but not a total rube. He knew enough to understand that dating could be rather more like a job interview than something romantic. He’d steeled himself for it, especially given his background.

He hadn’t prepared himself for Dorian, though. Maker, he was just so gorgeous. And charming. And smart. And --

Isabela came by with their entrees. “Bangers for the Knight-Captain, salmon for his hot date,” she said. “Is there anything else I can get you? Condoms for later, perhaps?”

It was Dorian's turn to splutter his drink. Alistair, meanwhile, just sighed. “Good on that, but I’ll take some HP, thanks.”

Izzie clucked her tongue and nodded. “Sure thing.” She sashayed towards the kitchen.

“You’re never coming here again, are you?” Alistair shook his head at Dorian.

“On the contrary, I’m sorry I haven’t been sooner,” Dorian said. “Good martinis are a dime a dozen, but she’s a treasure.”

“She’s... something,” Alistair laughed. “I mean that in the good way, not the ‘indeterminately strange’ way.”

“Funny, I seem to recall saying that about a man of my acquaintance recently,” Dorian grinned, taking a mouthful of his dinner.

Alistair blinked. “Oh. You... did, rather. Er. Have you been disabused of that notion?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Mmm,” Alistair said, tucking into his own meal. “That’s good, then.”

“Rather,” Dorian agreed, his voice pleasant. “I was hoping, in fact, that I might convince him to spend a bit more time in a private setting later. If that's not too much of an imposition.”

Much of the blood in Alistair’s head decided to vacate the premises for more southerly climes. “Right. Well. That's....” He took another bite of sausage and chewed thoughtfully.

A crease appeared between Dorian's eyebrows. “Of course there’s something to be said for not rushing things,” he blurted. “Never good to be pushy about such matters.”

“What? No, I - I mean. Um. He. Would. Like that. Presumably. I mean who wouldn’t?” Alistair added breathlessly.

Dorian relaxed marginally. “Well after such a busy day, I’m just saying, perhaps one would want some rest, that's perfectly understandable....”

A bottle of brown sauce was plunked forcefully on the table, and they both jumped. Isabela had her hands on her hips. “You two are the most pathetic cuties I’ve ever seen. Please finish eating so you can go home together,” she pleaded. “I’ll even throw in dessert to go, on the house.” She walked away without waiting for an answer.

Alistair was suddenly aware of the fact that they were the only people eating. There were a handful of people at the bar, but the tables were empty. It was Sunday evening, after all. “Damn, I didn’t think. It is rather late.”

“You Fereldens and your comically early suppers,” Dorian scoffed. He took a final bite and pushed his nearly empty plate aside. “Still, I assume you have to work in the morning?”

“Mmm,” Alistair nodded. “Unfortunately. Er. But, that is to say, I mean, I’d like to....” He frowned at his plate. Maker, this was difficult. How had he even managed last night? “I’d like to... spend more time with you. Tonight.”

“I’d like that too. Very much, in fact.” Dorian's eyes crinkled up at the corners, a shadow of a smile.

“Right,” Alistair said, blinking rapidly. “That’s... that's good.” He stared blankly at his food.

“I’m just going to go find the facilities,” Dorian said. “Back in a bit.” He rose and limped toward the bathrooms.

Alistair tried hard not to think too much, focusing on eating one bite at a time, chewing, and swallowing. Wouldn’t do to choke to death on sausage right before... he resolutely kept himself from making a terribly dirty joke in his head.

Isabela came by with the check and a little container. “Brownies, for later,” she grinned, taking Alistair’s credit card. “He seems fun,” she said, cocking her head at Dorian's empty seat.

“So far out of my league, Izzie,” Alistair shook his head helplessly. “I still can’t believe he’s here at all. He _is_ here, right? I’m not having some kind of breakdown and imagining it?”

Isabela laughed. “Yes, he’s here, and he’s charming and handsome and _into you._ Even Oghren can see it. You don’t give yourself enough credit, sweetie. Just have a good time, be yourself, and be safe. That's all there is to it.” She gave his shoulder an affectionate squeeze and scampered off to run his card.

Alistair sighed. Easy for her to say. Izzie was beautiful and flirtatious and had an effortless way with people. Alistair was lucky if he managed to go a whole day without putting his foot in his mouth or spilling something.

In the mirror above the bar, he saw Dorian emerge from the bathroom. He took two steps and stopped, reaching in his pocket for his phone. He swiped at the screen, then smiled at whatever he saw there. It was a warm and happy smile, and seeing it sent a wave of cold into Alistair’s stomach. He was at once deeply ashamed; he had absolutely no standing to be jealous. Of course it was nearly inevitable that Dorian would be seeing other men. Sweet Maker, he could get anyone he wanted, just look at him. Alistair should be happy Dorian wanted to see him again at all, not bemoaning the fact that he was smiling at his phone.

And then Dorian looked up, still grinning. He caught Alistair’s eye in the mirror, and his smile increased further. He looked back at his phone, thumbs flickering over the screen, then stowed the device in his pocket and limped back.

“Felix,” he explained. “He wanted to know how dinner was going.”

“Oh,” Alistair blinked, feeling enormously foolish. “Right.”

“Well. Shall we?” Dorian was still smiling, his eyes doing that crinkly thing at the corners.

“Yes. Oh. Wait -” Alistair reached back and grabbed the to-go container. “Brownies,” he explained.

“Can’t forget those.”

“No.”

“Will you two just leave already?” Isabela called from the kitchen. “Or have the decency to make out where I can see at least. The tension is killing me.”

Dorian cocked an eyebrow, shooting Alistair a crooked smile that had a little too much devilishness behind it.

“Oh no,” Alistair laughed, turning towards the door. “Come on. I’ve already put on one show today.”

“Sorry,” Dorian said over his shoulder, giving Isabela a wave. “Just following orders, you understand.”

The sound of Isabela’s disappointed pout followed them out into the night.

  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things move too fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh look angst

There was a hurried conversation in the parking lot. Given that Alistair had to work in the morning, it made sense to go back to his place. Under the amber sodium glow of the streetlamp, Dorian's eyes looked golden. It made Alistair trip over his words, though no more than normal. But unlike earlier in the day, there was nothing stopping him from leaning forward those scant inches.

Dorian did not lean away -- just the opposite, rearing up to pull Alistair down by the back of his neck with a sound just shy of a growl. Alistair acted on instinct, crowding Dorian up against his car, until his body hit the door with an audible thud and he groaned into Alistair’s mouth. 

“Maker, I’m sorry,” Alistair gasped, backing away. 

“Don’t be,” Dorian purred. “Rather hoping for a bit more of that later.”

“Right.” Alistair took a shaky breath. “Right.”

They got in their respective cars, Dorian following Alistair. Alistair narrated every moment of the trip to his empty vehicle. Once they arrived, Alistair fumbled to get the door to his house unlocked. He’d left without turning on the porch light, of course. The sound of keys jingling attracted attention from inside, and Buddy started to bay. 

Dorian inhaled sharply. “Oh, I forgot you have a dog.”

“Is -- is that a problem?” Alistair said, looking at Dorian in concern. Cullen had said something about dogs not being common in Tevinter. He got the door unlocked and pushed inside.

“Is it... big?” Dorian hadn’t moved, peering over Alistair’s shoulder.

“Er, well. He’s a mabari, so... yes?” Alistair flipped on the hall light. Buddy came trundling towards them a moment later, waggling so hard his back feet skidded on the hardwood. “Whoa, boy, there’s a good pup.” Buddy spun around in a circle, hopping with excitement.

Dorian took a step closer. “Sweet Andraste, he’s  _ huge.”  _ Now that there was some light, Alistair could see that he was smiling, though a bit wary. “How do you live with such a creature? He’s the size of a pony.”

“He was the runt of his litter,” Alistair chuckled. He addressed the dog. “Can you sit for Dorian? Sit?”

Obediently, the dog sat, looking up at Dorian with his tongue lolling out. Dorian held his hand out, holding it flat with the palm up. “Enchanté,” he murmured.

Buddy licked his hand and whuffed.

“What’s his name?”

“Technically, it’s Kevin,” Alistair explained. “Mostly I call him Buddy.”

“You named your dog Kevin?”

“Well... _ I _ didn’t, no. I wanted to call him Roger, actually. But there was a battle of wills, and he started answering to Kevin, so apparently I lost.” Alistair was careful not to mention Surana. “We mostly call him Buddy anyway. Or Good Boy. Because you’re such a good boy, aren’t you?” He said the last few words to the dog.

Buddy barked, waggling happily.

Laughing, Dorian drew his hand back, though he didn’t seem to know what to do with it. Of course he wasn’t the type to wipe a handful of dog spit on his pants, Alistair realized. 

“Well, come in,” Alistair said. “You’ll want the washroom, I’m guessing.”

“Only if it won’t offend Kevin.” Dorian followed him into the house. “I’d hate to get off on the wrong foot.”

“I’m sure he won’t mind,” Alistair said. “Gives him an opportunity for more kisses later.” 

“Speaking of which,” Dorian grinned, catching Alistair by his belt and pulling him close. 

It was starting to get familiar, kissing Dorian. They fit together this time with little fumbling, lips and tongues sliding against each other with ease. Alistair groaned when Dorian bit his lower lip and sucked. But then Dorian was pulling away. “Ah, I think someone may not approve,” he said, looking to the side.

Buddy was staring at them, head tilted. Alistair sighed. “He needs to go out. Here, let me show you the restroom, and I can take care of him in the meantime.” They stepped into the living space and Alistair flicked the switch for the overhead lights.

“Oh, this is lovely,” Dorian said, looking up at the vaulted ceilings. 

“I like it,” Alistair shrugged. “Just moved here a few months ago.” He hurried to retrieve the leash, hoping to avoid the conversation about why he’d moved. The fact that the house he’d shared with Surana had become simultaneously too large and too small wasn’t something he wanted to think about just now. “Er, bathroom is right through there.” Alistair nodded at the door just past the kitchen. “I’ll just take this one out for a quick go.” Buddy was already pawing at the back door.

“Alright,” Dorian smiled. 

Once outside, Alistair extended the leash as the dog wandered about, sniffing at the base of the trees. Some spots warranted a pee, some didn’t. Alistair wasn’t really watching, spending more time taking deep breaths and staring up at the stars. He lived on the outskirts of town, close enough that he could hear the distant whine of the highway, but far enough to not have any neighbors in his line of sight. The house itself was originally a ski cottage, a tiny A-frame chalet. Coming from the rickety old Victorian that he and Surana were forever fixing up, the new place was both perfectly sized for one person and easy to keep up. Which was good; interior renovations had been Surana’s thing. 

After a moment he heard the door slide open, and Dorian joined him. “I can’t believe how secluded this is, so close to town.”

“I got lucky,” Alistair noted, then winced at his choice of words. Luckily, Buddy decided to start rolling in something. “Oh no, no that's... bad dog. Come here at once.” Alistair didn’t yell, though he did snap his fingers.

The dog immediately rolled up to a sitting position, then trotted over. He didn’t reek, at least. Small blessings. The men followed the dog back inside.

The pause in the proceedings had given Alistair far too much time to think. Maker, what was he doing, really? He barely knew Dorian. He couldn’t decide if he was more ashamed for having slept with him so quickly, or for the fact that he intended to do so again. It was one thing to get swept up in the moment, but this was something else.

Still, seeing Dorian walking through his house, the way the man ran a hand along the counter at the edge of the kitchen, it was hard not to be entranced. Dorian turned, leaning against the kitchen island. “So.”

“So,” Alistair said, swallowing hard. He made his way over, putting a hand to either side of Dorian's hips. 

“I don’t have to stay. If you’re having second thoughts, I understand.” Dorian ran a hand down Alistair’s arm.

“It’s not -- no, I’m, well, yes -- but...” Alistair shook his head helplessly as Dorian shushed him with a finger across his lips. 

“I don’t want to push you into anything,” Dorian said. He leaned forward and gave Alistair a nearly-chaste kiss, sliding their lips together. “You need to tell me,” Dorian whispered. “To stay or to go.” He shifted his weight, one thigh sliding between Alistair’s legs.

Alistair hissed. Desire twined through his veins, hot and wild. Maker, but the man was irresistible. “Maker, stay, stay. Please stay.” 

He felt Dorian nod, the gesture jerky, his breath coming a little fast. Feeling the edge of Dorian's control was intoxicating. As unsure as Alistair was, something in him recognized that desperation, that need. That same something made him groan, nibbling along Dorian's jawline to his earlobe, taking the bit of flesh between his teeth and worrying it. 

Dorian gasped and bucked against him. “Fuck. Yes.”

Alistair pulled away, dragging Dorian by the hand toward the bedroom. When he opened the door, he groaned, and not with pleasure. “Damn.” He’d left the place in a shambles. His bed was made, but strewn with clothes. All of his bureau drawers were open, as were his closet doors. 

Dorian snickered. “Laundry day?” 

“Maker, don’t remind me. Sorry. Sorry. I promise I’m not always a slob.” He flung the clothes towards the hamper.

“It’s fine,” Dorian said, in that indulgent tone of someone who never misses laundry day. “You’ve had a busy weekend.”

Alistair shut the door. “A bit.” He turned off the bright overhead lights. With just the bedside lamp, it didn’t seem as big of a disaster, anyway. 

Dorian reached for him, and they swayed together in another breathless kiss. That is, until Dorian shifted his weight and whimpered, falling back on the bed and clutching at his foot. “Sorry. Landed wrong.” He pulled his shoe off and sighed in relief. 

Alistair sat beside him. “Are you alright?” he fretted. “Do you need ice, or, or....”

“Alistair. I know what I need, and it’s not ice,” Dorian said. He knelt up and pivoted, straddling Alistair’s lap. 

“Maker,” Alistair breathed. He pulled Dorian closer, gripping his ass.

“Ah, there it is,” Dorian grinned, gripping his shoulders. “That’s what I like.” He nuzzled into the crook of Alistair’s neck. “No need to be gentle. I won’t break.”

“D-do you mean that?” Alistair cringed. 

“Oh yes,” Dorian whispered. “I’ve thought of little else today. Trust me, I’ll tell you if it’s too much.” He traced the tip of his tongue along the shell of Alistair’s ear. 

Kicking off his shoes, Alistair wrenched off his sweater and undershirt in one swoop. 

Dorian rolled gracefully from Alistair’s lap and made quick work of his clothes, stripping to his underwear. He leaned back on his elbows, one knee drawn up.

Alistair bit his lip. “Maker, you’re exquisite.”

There was a tightness around Dorian's eyes, like he was worried. Alistair wondered if he said the wrong thing. Certainly wouldn’t be the first time. Before he could apologize, Dorian spoke.

“You’re wearing far too many clothes,” he murmured, tugging the button open on Alistair’s jeans.

“Right,” Alistair nodded, scooting his hips up so he could yank the offending garment off. 

Once it was tossed to the side, Dorian grinned. “Much better.” He ran a hand down Alistair’s stomach, fingers toying with the waistband of his boxers.

Alistair shivered, as much from nerves as the chill. It was different than yesterday. Yesterday he’d been so overcome with pent-up lust that his brain had jammed for most of the encounter, leaving him acting on instinct or responding to Dorian's instructions. 

Today, though, his mind was working overtime.  _ Maker, he’s so gorgeous -- I’ve never had sex in this house -- does it count though, I’ve had sex in this bed -- DON’T think about that moron, not now -- aaaand there goes my erection, great. _

“You seem nervous.” Dorian's voice was gentle. 

“I - I am,” he confessed. “I’m sorry.”

Dorian sighed in sympathy. “Don’t be. I shouldn’t have pushed.” He leaned away, giving Alistair some space. 

“You didn’t,” Alistair insisted. “I... I want to -- it’s just... this is a little fast for me.” The words came out in a rush, and he flinched to hear himself say them.  _ Sweet Andraste, how pathetic can you get?  _

Dorian was looking at him, his expression inscrutable. 

Alistair rushed to fill the silence, unable to stand it. “I know you’re probably used to... well. Not this. And -- and you’re so handsome and charming and I thought, maybe I could just, you know, try something new, not be such a stick in the mud, it’s not like I don’t... you know. Want... things.”

Dorian was still looking at him, only now he was frowning. 

“You’re frowning. Maker, that can’t be good. I’m so sorry, dragging you all the way out here and wasting your time and --” 

“Alistair.” Dorian's voice was very quiet, and very sad. “Please don’t apologize. You haven’t wasted a second of my time.”

Alistair didn’t quite believe that, but said nothing. Dorian sat up, running his hands through his hair. “I’ll... let you get some sleep,” he said. “You’ve got to be exhausted.”

“You’re going?” Alistair blurted out before he could stop himself. “Sorry, sorry. Of course you are, what a stupid thing to say. You’re right, I’m tired, listen to me, not even making sense.” He sat up as well, rooting around on the floor for his undershirt and shrugging it on.  _ Why can’t you ever keep your mouth shut? What, you think he’s just going to stick around and cuddle?  _ He busied himself with retrieving his slippers from under the bed, trying to avoid looking at Dorian.

After a second, he felt movement on the bed as Dorian got up. He listened to the sounds of fabric and zippers and belt buckles as Dorian dressed. Alistair rose as well and turned once he was sure Dorian was at least mostly clothed. 

“Right. Well,” Alistair said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Dorian stroked his upper arm. “I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable.”

Alistair bit back the apology that automatically sprang to his lips. Instead he nodded absently, looking everywhere but at Dorian's face. “I’ll just, um, walk you out then.” As if he could possibly regain any dignity by show of manners. Loneliness was already twisting his insides to shreds, feeding off of the hopes he’d told himself not to have.

Buddy helped defuse the moment, at least. He sprang up and snuffled at Dorian's hand happily. Dorian patted his head in that way that people without dogs do, flat-handed and tentative. “Good boy,” he murmured.

Alistair was thoroughly miserable by the time they got to the door. He chanced a glance at Dorian; he looked so uncomfortable, though his expression lightened into a weak smile when he caught Alistair’s eye. “Thank you for dinner, by the way. I don’t think I got the chance to say it before.”

“Oh! Right. My pleasure,” Alistair said automatically, attempting to smile.

“Well, I should be going,” Dorian said, fishing keys from his pocket and looking out the door to the driveway. Quickly, he turned, leaning forward and planting a kiss on Alistair’s cheek, just on the corner of his lips. “I’ll text you later.” And he turned and left.

“Right,” Alistair said, his voice glum. Well, that didn’t take long. He knew he was going to screw it up eventually. At least he got to have sex yesterday. Not that sex had been the end goal. Maker, if it was, he wouldn’t be alone. Well. It was his first go at it, after... after. Could’ve been worse. He felt like the loneliest man on earth right now, but it would fade, he knew that much at least. 

Buddy whined. “I know, I know,” Alistair said to the dog. “I’m not an idiot. He’s not going to text me later.” He took a deep breath, held it for a second, then let it out. “Come on. I’ll put on some shoes, we can go out for a proper walk.”

Buddy gave a happy  _ boof,  _ then licked Alistair’s shin.

“Okay, okay, shoes  _ and _ pants. Such a stickler.”

***

Dorian got to the end of the roadway, his car stopped at the intersection. It was very dark; no streetlights this far out of town, and his were the only headlights visible. After a moment he realized his hands were shaking. “Damn.” He wiped a hand over his face and resumed the drive home.

He felt awful. How could he have not realized he’d gone too far? When had he become the kind of person that would even consider pushing someone past their comfort zone? Good lord. The look on Alistair’s face was heartbreaking. Even before his stuttering explanation, it was obvious Alistair had only agreed to go back to his place because he thought Dorian expected it. 

The hell of it was, Dorian  _ did  _ expect it. Or rather, he wanted it to be that simple. He wanted it to be a bit of fun, wanted Alistair to see him that way. There was a playbook for these situations, and Dorian was trying like hell to follow it. The plays existed for a reason. The field was cluttered with red flags, and Dorian had no desire to trip and get caught up in some doomed ‘relationship’, no matter how much boyish charm Alistair displayed. Who has the energy for such things? Maker, the man spilled more volumes of liquid on himself than he drank -- he could barely keep up with his own laundry -- oh and let’s not forget  _ grieving widower.  _

_ Let’s also not forget literal knight in shining armor.  _

“Vishante kaffas,” Dorian swore, skidding to a halt under a traffic light gone red. He waited for it to change, then turned down his street. 

His house was exactly as he left it: pristine. No enormous dogs, no one else’s balled up socks in the bedroom, no damp towels crumpled on the bathroom floor. The bottle of whiskey was exactly as full as it had been the last time he’d had any; no one had drunk the rest and forgotten to tell him to buy more. The radio was tuned to classical, the recliner was empty and waiting for him to sit, no one wanted to watch TV while he relaxed with his drink.

And yet, he pulled out his phone and typed a message to Alistair. His thumb hovered over the send arrow on his phone.  _ I didn’t want to leave.  _ He looked at the words a long time, knowing they were true, and yet not having a fucking clue what they meant. 

Eventually the screen timed out. He swiped it to life, saved the message to his drafts, and put the phone away.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian makes some decisions. Just not at the right times.

“This is ridiculous,” Felix insisted. “I refuse to accept it.”

Dorian laughed. “Don’t tell me -- you’re so fed up, you’re going to elope.”

“You laugh, but if this is how stressful it is to plan just an engagement party, how am I going to handle a whole wedding?” Felix groaned, flipping through the catering menu in front of him for the hundredth time. They were at a local vineyard, the site for the party in question, to be held next weekend. Dorian had been given the back-breaking task of helping Felix finalize a menu.

“If you think Josephine would allow Cullen to elope, you’re welcome to try.” Dorian lounged, sipping a glass of prosecco. He leaned forward and helped himself to a stuffed mushroom. “You should get some of these, they’re quite good.”

“Already on the list,” Felix grumbled. With a sigh, he scribbled a few more notes on the clipboard the caterer had given him and tossed it to the side, grabbing his own wine glass. “Done. Fine. Good enough. Cheers,” he said, holding his glass out.

“Cheers.” Dorian took a sip, then gazed out over the vineyard, awash in late-afternoon sunlight. “Stupid question, but will Alistair be there?” It was beyond stupid; he was Cullen's oldest friend. 

Felix scratched his ear and grimaced. He always did that when he wanted to tell Dorian something he didn’t want to hear. “Of course he will.”

“Ah,” Dorian nodded. “Of course.”

With a heavy sigh, Felix shook his head. “You know it’d be a lot easier to lecture you about how wrong you are if you told me exactly what you actually did.”

“Mmm, funny how that works, isn’t it?” Dorian gave him a half smile.

“I’m beginning to think you two killed a man or something. According to Cullen, he’s just as tight-lipped as you are about... whatever happened.” Felix cleared his throat, looking down into his drink. “He wanted to know if he could bring someone.”

_ Well that didn’t take long.  _ Somehow, he’d thought he still had a chance to... well, do something. The day after they’d last seen each other, Dorian thought that perhaps he needed to figure out what he wanted before reaching out. That only made sense, right? The problem was that he wasn’t actually sure what he wanted. Or rather, he did know, deep down, and the thought of it was so far-fetched and terrifying that he refused to believe it was possible. Hence, the day of no contact stretched into three, then six. Apparently he’d missed his window. 

Felix raised his eyebrows. “Just tell me, already,” he sighed.

Dorian gave a tight smile. “Let’s just say I have some Joni Mitchell lyrics running through my head right about now.”

“Let me guess - you paved paradise and put up a parking lot?” 

“Something like that,” Dorian admitted.  _ You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.  _ “I hate Joni Mitchell.”

“I know,” Felix sadi. The caterer bustled back out to go over the menu with him, giving Dorian an out. 

“Just going to take a stroll while you work out the details,” Dorian said, heaving himself to his feet.

In the grand scheme of things, failing to follow through on a text was not an earth-shattering event. Of course, neither did Alistair reach out. Dorian had half-heartedly taken that to be a good sign. And apparently it was, if he was bringing a date to the party. But there were good signs and  _ good _ signs, and this one left a sour taste in Dorian's mouth.

But it was clear that he did, in fact, want  _ something  _ with Alistair. It’d been most of a week and he still missed the man’s goofy grin. This was to say nothing about the way his stomach clenched thinking about Alistair with someone else. Well, he was bound to find out what he wanted eventually. This was just a colossally shitty method to do so. 

Footsteps sounded behind him. “All set,” Felix said. 

“Oh good. I don’t know if I could stand another minute of being surrounded by all this useless beauty.” 

Felix laughed. “So, since we’re on the subject of guest lists....” 

“Are we still?”

Felix licked his lips. “Max will be there.”

“Oh, for fucking - really?” Dorian drew his hands across his eyes. 

“I thought you were on good terms!” Felix said.

“Well we  _ are, _ but that doesn’t mean I want to make small talk with the man,” Dorian groaned. “Or his husband.” Truth be told, he liked Max’s husband. Hell, he’d slept with the man, several times, before Dorian had gotten together with Max. Dorian had introduced them, in fact, and then spent the last year and a half avoiding their invitations to dinner and drinks. Dorian shook his head and pointed at the building. “No. Go back in there. I guarantee you didn’t order enough wine.”

Laughing, Felix slung an arm around his shoulders. “I don’t think they’ll run dry. Just wait till after your toast, okay?”

“I suppose,” Dorian allowed. 

It had been a long time since Dorian had experienced disappointment this acute. The last few years, he’d been let down dozens of times, or had been the one pulling a slow fade. But those experiences were amorphous, when the connection failed to gel. Actually getting to the point of  _ wanting  _ something, and then not being able to have it, wasn’t something he’d dealt with in quite a while.

His first instinct was to find a distraction. Best not to wallow. It was Saturday afternoon. Surely he could scare up suitable entertainment for the evening. The only question was how. Well, that's what Grindr was for, wasn’t it?

He kept his expectations low, but there was a profile that caught his attention, in a hipster lumberjack kind of way. The man responded almost immediately - in town from Kirkwall, visiting his brother, would be at the Singing Maiden later. He sent a selfie without protest - kaffas, he was hot. Dorian responded in kind. Things were looking up.

The Singing Maiden was most emphatically not Dorian's kind of place. Not that it was bad, exactly, but it adhered to a forced-seedy aesthetic that Dorian found tiresome, the kind of place his students would go to drink beer that was simultaneously cheap and overpriced. Dorian threw on his skinny jeans, a pair of trainers, a v-neck tee, and hell, why not - his lumpiest cardigan. When in Rome, after all.

The pub was busy. They’d arranged to meet rather late, so the man could spend some time with, and then subsequently ditch, his brother. There was no immediate sign of Dorian's quarry, but it was a big place. Dorian snagged a free stool at the bar, ordered an IPA, and texted his hopefully-newfound friend with his location. 

Now that he was actually here, Dorian felt uneasy, the combination of anticipation and remorse over Alistair coming together to form something like fatigue. Before it had time to set in, however, a burly, bearded gent with a cheeky grin and fantastic arms leaned on the bar next to him. “You shouldn’t come here, you know. They let just about anyone in.” His voice was deep and rich and confident.

“Is that so?” Dorian smirked, turning to him.

The man’s mouth was open to reply, but then he blinked and shut it. He laughed. “You are so much better looking in person, sweet Maker.”

Dorian squinted in mock challenge. “I can’t take a good picture of myself, is that what you’re saying?”

“No, your pictures were ridiculous. I thought you’d touched them up, in fact. How do you --” The man waved his hands vaguely, trying to define Dorian's shape. “How do you walk about without men just attaching themselves to you like lampreys?”

This time Dorian laughed for real. “Dorian, by the way.”

“Hawke,” the man said, holding out his hand. 

“Is your brother still here?” Dorian asked, looking around.

“I’m afraid so. My attempts to get him drunk enough to not notice if I skip out have gone awry, as he brought his girlfriend and a few buddies with him. They’re playing pool now.” Hawke shook his head ruefully. “Still, it’s....” He looked around, peering up at the walls. “Ah, there we are. It’s nearly midnight,” he said, squinting at the clock. “Perhaps I’ll just have one more drink here at the bar, then say my good-byes, head back to my hotel,” he winked. “I do have a flight to catch in the morning.”

“That sounds eminently reasonable,” Dorian agreed blandly. 

Dorian could not believe his luck. Hawke was not only mouth-wateringly sexy, he was funny -- bawdy and nonsensical in equal measure, keeping Dorian laughing more out of disbelief than anything else. And most importantly, Hawke was leaving tomorrow. No chance of complications. It was perfect. 

One drink turned into two, and Dorian’s anticipation was finally starting to tip the balance. He casually let his hand brush down Hawke’s bicep, smiling as he felt the man flex for him. Maybe he did want to do this after all. 

“For fuck’s sake, Garrett, is this where you’ve gone off to?” Another man came out of the back room, shaking his head, carrying a stack of empty glasses. “Should’ve known you’d be trying to pick... someone... up.” The man’s tone fell from joking to suspicious as he saw Dorian.

Alarm bells began to ring in Dorian's head. The man looked familiar, and not just because of what was clearly a family resemblance. 

“Hey!” Another familiar voice, this one female, chirped up from behind the man. “It’s you! How’s your foot?” Harding grinned at him.

“Much better, thanks,” Dorian said, hoping his smile wasn’t as tentative as it felt. By now he remembered seeing the man standing by Alistair at the Tourney.  _ If there is a just and benevolent Maker, please let Alistair not be here with them. _

“You know each other?” Hawke said in surprise.

“Er, sort-of,” Dorian hedged. 

Apparently the Maker was cruel, or had a terrible sense of humor, because Alistair walked up next, empty glass in hand, alongside a very tall, very beautiful woman. A woman who was hovering too close for it to not mean something. “What’s going --” Alistair’s face froze as he saw Dorian. His eyes flicked to Hawke and then back. His posture crumpled, and Dorian felt his own chest collapse. “Oh. Hello,” he mumbled, his voice almost inaudible over the sound of the bar. 

It was definitely possible that Dorian had felt worse in his life -- likely, even. He just couldn’t actually remember any of those moments just now. All of the justifications Dorian had granted himself to meet Hawke melted like candy floss in a puddle. Kaffas, what had he been thinking? If he hadn’t been such a coward last weekend.... Well, no point in going there. Dorian  _ was  _ a coward, and he was paying the price. In any event, it was more than clear that Alistair had moved on. 

“Why do I feel like I’m in one of Varric’s terrible novels? Again?” Hawke said, looking around in confusion.

“Varric Tethras? The famous author?” The woman had an accent -- Nevarran, perhaps. It only added to her beauty. Of course.

The coincidence just made it all the more absurd. “You know Varric?” Dorian said to Hawke. 

“Didn’t I say I was from Kirkwall?” Hawke said, smiling. “We all know him. Carver too.”

“Oh how funny, he teaches at my University,” Dorian blurted, hoping desperately to cover the moment. 

“Does everyone know him but me?” The woman glared at Alistair.

“Er, I’ve met him, yeah. Through Cullen.” He looked at his feet.

The woman turned to Harding.

“Sorry, Cass,” Harding shrugged. “Just you I guess. I know him through Isabela.”

With a disgusted snort, Cass threw up her hands in frustration. 

The woman’s name jarred Dorian's memory. Of course. Of course Alistair was with the woman from the Tourney. The one he’d bested, flipping her the way he’d flipped Dorian that night.... “If you’ll just excuse me for a moment, I need to use the restroom.” Dorian slid from his stool and fled.

_ Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.  _ Dorian castigated himself, leaning both hands on the damp countertop of the bathroom sink. He wished he was the sort of person to slip out the bathroom window. No, he had to face the mess he’d made. After a few more minutes, he straightened and headed back into the pub.

Hawke leaned against the bar, alone. He grinned when he saw Dorian. “You came back,” he said.

“Was that in doubt?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I’ve been known to slip out the back on occasion.” Hawke took a sip of his beer.

Dorian sighed. “I didn’t want to snag my sweater on the window casing,” he drawled. “I take it they left?”

“Mmm,” Hawke said, nodding. “So - can I ask what the deal is, or will that ruin my chances for a blowjob? Assuming I still have some chance, that is.”

Huffing a laugh, Dorian shook his head at the whole situation. “Alistair and I hooked up. Quite recently. As you can see, he’s moved on.”

“Ahhh,” Hawke said sagely. “I see. And so have you, clearly.” His grin was far too knowing for Dorian's taste. 

“Clearly,” Dorian said, voice dry as paper. 

Setting down his now-empty glass, Hawke examined the pattern of foam, tracing it with his finger. “If this  _ were _ one of Varric’s shitty novels, I’d tell you to forget all about me, that you’d regret it, and that you should try to get him back before things get serious with Cassandra. But,” he said, leaning back to fix Dorian with a direct look, “this isn’t one of his crappy books, and I want to fuck the shit out of you. So.”

A better man would probably not have considered it as long as Dorian did. Hawke had a point; this was not a romance novel or TV show, it was real life. He could sleep with Hawke; he could ride the man’s cock until he couldn’t see straight, banish all thoughts of Alistair for a few hours at least, and be perfectly justified in doing so. After all, hadn’t Alistair himself been on a date? 

Before Dorian had met Alistair, he wouldn’t have hesitated at all. But he  _ had _ met Alistair, and he wanted him, and now Dorian realized why. Because years ago, before he’d gotten swept into the heady, hormone-laced maelstrom of his late teens and early twenties, before he’d tried and tried and  _ tried  _ with Max, Dorian had believed in true love. 

Not that he loved Alistair; not by a long shot. But the bashful, clumsy, ridiculous man had that same innocence that Dorian once harbored. And even despite Alistair’s grief, he’d not lost that quality -- it shone through every pore of the man’s being. Somewhere along the way, Dorian had become cynical. But maybe that could be changed. 

“I will admit, the thought holds some appeal,” Dorian murmured. “But there’s casual sex, and there’s sleeping with the friend of the man I’m pining over.” It was harder to say than he thought it would be.

Hawke’s posture changed at once, going from provocative to sympathetic. “I didn’t know there was  _ pining _ involved. You should’ve said.” He waved at the bartender. “We need something stronger over here, we’ve got a  _ pining _ situation.”

Laughing helplessly, Dorian dropped his forehead into his hands. “God, I can’t believe I’m turning down sex.”

“I can’t believe I got shot down. This is my lucky shirt.” Hawke pulled the two tumblers set down by the bartender towards them. He raised one in a toast.

Absently, Dorian clinked the little glass and threw back the liquor, making a face at the harsh burn of well whiskey. 

“Though I do have to say,” Hawke continued, pausing to cover his mouth for a discreet burp, “I’m not so sure it really worked between Alistair and Cassandra. You know. She didn’t laugh at his jokes, and they did that thing where they would both wait to talk and then end up talking at the same time. ‘You go,’ ‘No, you,’ ‘You spoke first’, that sort of thing.” Hawke scrubbed a hand through his beard. “Never a good sign.”

There was a tiny spark of hope that flickered somewhere in Dorian's chest, only to be quashed almost immediately. “Well that doesn’t mean much. He and I didn’t get along at first either,” Dorian admitted. 

“I’ve known Alistair a long time,” Hawke nodded. “He can be a bit... awkward.”

“A bit,” Dorian laughed. “But he has a way of getting under one’s skin.” He took a deep breath and shook himself. “Ah well. Water under the bridge.”

“If you say so,” Hawke shrugged. “I’m still rooting for you though,” he winked. 

“I appreciate that. And please, let me get your drinks. For your trouble,” Dorian offered.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Hawke said, waving magnanimously. “I was already here, remember? You’re the one who went to all the trouble.”

Dorian groaned. Epiphanies aside, things with Alistair himself were probably beyond repair simply because he  _ had  _ gone to the trouble. Dorian realized that Hawke was looking at him and grinning. “What?”

“You  _ do  _ have it bad, my friend. It’s written all over your face.” Hawke clapped him on the shoulder. 

“I beg your pardon, it most certainly is not,” Dorian sniffed. 

“Suit yourself. Listen, I come to town every so often. Since you’re so sure it won’t work out between you, maybe I’ll text you next time I’m here.” Hawke stood and pulled the jacket from the back of his barstool, swinging it around his shoulders.

“I’d like that,” Dorian said. “It was good to meet you, Hawke.”

“Likewise.” Hawke shook his hand and headed out. 

Dorian followed soon after. There was no real point in staying, after all. Once he was alone in his car, he started to feel rather dreadful. The feeling intensified when he got home. He tried to ignore it, going about his routine to get ready for bed. There was no sidestepping the issue once he got into bed and lay there, staring up at the ceiling.

Kaffas, Hawke was right. He  _ was  _ pining. Dammit all. If only he hadn’t run into Alistair he’d be well and truly distracted right now. But instead he was in his bed, which seemed very cold and lonely. 

Dorian huffed and tossed and turned and violently fluffed his pillow. Finally, with a groan, he sat up. This was ridiculous. He threw the covers off, grabbed his pillow, and went back downstairs. If his traitorous brain wouldn’t let him sleep, he’d simply have to drown it out with television. 

As a child, he hadn’t been allowed to watch cartoons. Halward didn’t approve. Naturally, Dorian had gorged himself on the forbidden fruit when he came south. Cartoons quickly became his go-to to quell the thoughts that would occasionally rob him of sleep. He made himself a nest of blankets on the couch and flipped on the TV. Dexter’s Laboratory was on. Dorian burrowed under the covers and let the now-familiar cartoon wash over him, waiting for fatigue to overtake him. He’d feel better in the morning.

***

“That man,” Cassandra said to Alistair as they headed to his jeep. “He was at the Tourney.”

“Yyyyyes,” Alistair said, trying to sound casual. 

“I... thought you were involved,” she noted, climbing into the passenger seat.

“Oh, no. Well. We went on a date. Two dates. But -- but we’re not. Involved, that is,” Alistair clarified. 

Cassandra said nothing. She did that a lot, Alistair realized. The night hadn’t been a total disaster, but it certainly hadn’t been fun, either. It was a mistake to call Cassandra, he could see that now. At the time, Alistair thought it was the thing to do. She’d asked him to drinks before, after all, and it wasn’t like she wasn’t attractive. And they had a lot in common. Or, well, something in common at least. Wasn’t that how this was supposed to work? If at first you don’t succeed, or something like that?

Alistair pulled up to Cassandra’s house. He kind of wished she lived further away. Now it was just awkward. Story of his life.

“Alistair,” she began, and he recognized the tone. He couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or relieved. 

“I... enjoyed the evening.” A thin line between Cassandra’s brows made Alistair doubt the truthfulness of her words. “However, I am left with the feeling that you would have preferred another’s company.”

Sighing, Alistair winced, slumping his shoulders. “God, I’m so sorry Cass.”

“Do not be sorry. But neither am I one to live in false hopes, nor jeopardize our friendship.” She looked at him, her features outlined in the faint light from the front porch.

There was no denying; she was very beautiful. Alistair  _ wanted _ to want her, to  _ want _ to lean over and kiss her. But he simply didn’t. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He laughed weakly. “So, you don’t want to come to the party next week, then? You could meet Varric.” 

He’d meant it as a joke, but Cass straightened in her seat. “Will - will he be there?” Her voice was sharper than usual.

Alistair laughed again, for real this time. “As far as I know,” he said. 

“I should very much like to meet him,” Cass admitted, biting her lip. “Could we - perhaps go as friends?”

“Sure,” Alistair said. “Why not.”

She flashed a smile, so brief that he almost missed it. “Thank you. That is very kind of you.”

“It’ll be fun. I’ll text you on Friday, we can set it up.”

Cass was already climbing out of the car. “I look forward to hearing from you then,” she said, formal as ever. She closed the door, dipped her head in a brief bow, and went into the house.

Once he was alone, Alistair felt the pit of his stomach start to sink. There was no point in narrating; he wasn’t anxious, just miserable. Seeing Dorian had felt like getting punched in the stomach, but he’d done his best to hide it. Not that his best was very good; clearly Cassandra knew something was up. 

He turned down his driveway and headed inside. Buddy bounded toward him, skidding on the wood floor. “Hey boy,” Alistair sighed. The dog curtailed its excitement, nuzzling at his hand. Alistair dutifully let him out and got ready for bed. 

Of course Dorian had moved on; Alistair had known he would. Not like he’d offered the man anything of value. He was probably spending the night with Hawke, and Alistair couldn’t blame him. Hawke was handsome and charming and knew his way around the bedroom, if half of his stories were true. 

Alistair put on his pajamas, but didn’t get into bed. Instead he padded out to the living room and clicked on the TV, turning on the cartoon channel. It was Dexter’s Laboratory -- a good one, too. Maker, no wonder Dorian didn’t text him back. Watching cartoons like a child, it was pathetic. Still, he didn’t change the station, but pulled the throw off the back of the couch and wrapped himself up in it, waiting for the bad feelings to pass. It would be morning soon enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory "Hawke no" etc etc


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix and Cullen have an engagement party.

The day of the party, Dorian briefly considered coming down with a dreadful cold. But no. That was too petty for a Pavus. The only thing to be done, of course, was to show up, look phenomenal, and give the most gracious, eloquent toast known to man. Who knows, maybe there would be some other single men there. Cullen had been on a rugby team in college, after all.

_ You don’t want a rugby player. You want a knight in shining armor, and you had him, and you lost him. _

He dismissed the intrusive thought; by now he’d had a week’s practice and was able to banish it with little effort. He drove up to the vineyard twenty-five minutes after the event began. The sight of the battered Range Rover parked by the entrance gave him only the briefest of twitches in his stomach. Once inside, he surveyed the room.

It was lively -- for all his fretting, Felix had done a great job in selecting the venue. The balance of rustic comfort and stylish detail was a perfect metaphor for his relationship with Cullen. Dorian's eyes automatically went to the cheese table; sure enough, he spied a thatch of auburn hair, attached to a man busily loading a small plate. Cassandra stood next to Alistair, frowning slightly as she surveyed the room.

“Right on time,” Felix said then, walking up with his arms outstretched. “You look great.”

“Was that in doubt?” Dorian laughed, giving him a hug. “I always look great.”

Cullen came up as well and shook his hand. “Dorian. Thanks for coming.”

“I’m glad to be here,” he smiled. It was only half a lie. 

There were plenty of familiar faces, of course. Dorian gave a few nods and waves as he headed straight for the bar. Wine was definitely a priority.

“Hello, Dorian.” The voice that sounded behind him was familiar. 

Taking a half second to arrange his face, Dorian turned around, smiling. “Max. Felix said you’d be here.”

Max gave him a one-armed hug. “You look great.”

“Why do people keep saying that?” He scoffed. “Might as well say the sun comes up every morning.”

“Haven’t changed, I see. I’m glad,” Max said, and damn him, it sounded like he meant it. 

“Where is -” Dorian didn’t get the chance to finish before he heard an exultant growl. He felt arms wrap around his chest, and he was lifted bodily off the ground.

“Dorian!” Bull boomed. “How the hell ya been?”

“Put me down, you oaf,” Dorian grumbled. In his peripheral vision, he saw Alistair look over and away. 

Bull gave him a big wet kiss on the cheek, making an exaggerated ‘mwah’ noise. “You missed me, don’t lie.”

Max was grinning at them. “I’m sorry, you were saying?” 

“It seems my question was answered,” Dorian scowled, wiping his cheek. 

“Gonna get a drink. Kadan, you need anything?” Bull pointed at the glass in Max’s hand. 

“I’ll take another,” he said, draining his wine and handing over the empty glass.

“Thank you I’ll have the meritage!” Dorian called after him in exasperation. Bull didn’t turn, but gave a wave in acknowledgement.

“So. How have you been?” Max asked, his voice polite. 

“Oh, you know. Fine,” Dorian said. It was harder than he expected, seeing Max and Bull. Losing his touch, maybe. He certainly should have known it wouldn’t be easy. “You? Married life seems to agree with you.”

Max nodded, looking over at the bar. Bull was flirting wildly at the bartender, an older woman who just laughed at him. “Oddly enough, it does.”

Bull came back over, balancing three glasses of wine. “Alright, sauvignon for kadan, meritage for the fancy ‘Vint, and rosé for me.” 

They clinked. “So, Dorian. You seeing anyone or what? Can’t tell me you’re keeping such a fabulous ass under wraps.”

Max laughed into his wine glass. 

“Oh for the love of - Bull!” Dorian shook his head helplessly. 

“What? We’ve all seen it.” Bull pleaded his defense. 

“Is this my punishment for sleeping with you all those years ago? Or the thanks I get for introducing the two of you?” Dorian asked. “I can’t quite tell.”

The servers were gently ushering everyone to the long communal table for dinner. As it was a somewhat-informal event, they took seats wherever. Dorian ended up next to Felix. “How’re you holding up?” he muttered under his voice as he spread a napkin on his lap.

“Was about to ask you the same thing,” Felix said.

Dorian's eyes flitted up the table. Alistair was holding a chair out Cassandra, who settled into it with a leonine grace that made Dorian faintly ill. Alistair glanced his way as he took his seat, looking thoroughly embarrassed.

“I’m fine,” Dorian said, not bothering to smile. 

He recovered quickly, however. It was far too happy of an occasion for him to stew in his own juices. Plus he had a speech looming.

Once the majority of the table was more than half done with their meal, Dorian stood, tapping his glass. “If I could tear you away from the delicious food for a moment, I’d like to say a few words.” 

Dorian practiced his speech several times. He’d never  _ admit  _ that he practiced, of course. He prided himself on his reputation as a natural public speaker; the trick was to make it look effortless, which, paradoxically, took a lot of work. The practice hadn’t been for naught. Dorian had the guests laughing and smiling, eating out of the palm of his hand. Triumphant, he wrapped it up. “So if we could all raise our glass to the happy couple,” Dorian said, hefting his own. 

Everyone tinked glasses and Dorian sat, flush with the adrenaline of public speaking. Cullen rose and thanked everyone for coming. “And I promised my oldest friend that he’d have to say a few words as well.”

“Threatened, more like,” Alistair said. He got to his feet, shifting his weight nervously. “Uhm. I’m not, good with words. Or, well, a lot of things. But, I - I wanted to say....” He cleared his throat. “Those who know me, know it hasn’t been... the easiest time. Lately. You know, you come to a point where sometimes, you lose -- lose sight of what matters. And I was -- ah -- there. In that place. For a while, actually. And then Cullen said, oh, I’ve met the most wonderful man. Kind and funny and smart --”

“Not handsome?” Felix joked, swatting Cullen on the arm.

“And handsome,” Alistair amended with a nervous chuckle. “So I went to meet him, and....” His voice faltered, and he cleared his throat again. “And I saw how in love they were. I realized that no matter how bad I felt, there were people out there making each other happy. And it... it really helped, to know that. So. Er. That's it. I guess. To... uh....” He raised his glass, blinking as he searched for a toast. 

“To love,” Cullen said, looking at Felix with a crooked smile.

There were a chorus of “hear hears” around the table. Dorian sipped his wine, not trusting himself to look up. The last thing he needed to do was let how deeply Alistair’s words affected him show on his face. Regret was not a good look, after all.

After dinner, the party loosened up. The wine flowed freely, the music got louder. Dorian started to wonder how soon he could get away with leaving. In the meantime, more wine was called for. 

He leaned on the bar as the bartender fetched him a new glass. Bull rocketed into the stool next to him, clapping him on the shoulder. “Nice speech,” he said. 

“Thank you,” Dorian said absently.

“So what’s the story with you and the Ferelden ginger?”

Dorian's posture stiffened. “What? What’re you talking about?”

Bull snorted. “You’ve been ignoring him all night, and he’s been making puppy dog eyes.”

“Nonsense,” Dorian scoffed, inwardly cursing both Bull’s powers of observation and the spark of hope in his chest. “He’s here with a date.”

“Who, that chick? Uh, no offense, but she doesn’t seem that interested in your boy.” Bull nodded at the corner of the room. 

Cassandra was sitting with Varric, listening to him talk with a rapt expression. Dorian stood a little straighter. “Oh.”

“Your boy’s on the side patio,” Bull said, nudging him with an elbow. “Just saying.”

“Maybe I could do with some air,” Dorian nodded.

“Oh yeah, definitely.” Bull nodded expansively. “Clear your head and all that.”

Dorian was already moving towards the patio doors. “Thanks, Bull.”

“No prob.”

***

There was very little to see of the vineyards at night, but Alistair stared over the vines anyway, leaning on the railing. It was too chilly to stand around for so long without a jacket, really. He should go back in.

Alistair made no move to do so. He wished he hadn’t given Cassandra a ride. Maybe she’d be getting bored soon? He certainly was. 

Except he wasn’t bored, exactly; he was miserable. He could hardly keep his eyes off Dorian all night, and the man had barely glanced at him. Indeed, Dorian appeared to be having a wonderful time, chatting easily, laughing, utterly at ease.  _ Well what did you expect? You know he’s moved on to bigger and better things.  _

Alistair heard the patio doors swing open, and he braced himself to make small talk.  _ Maybe they’re just out for a smoke and will leave me alone.  _

Someone cleared their throat behind him. “Is there some cheese hidden out here I’m not aware of?” 

_ Oh Maker, it’s him.  _ Alistair forced himself to turn. “No, just... you know. Fresh air.” He looked up at the night sky. 

“Mmm,” Dorian said. “They have lots of that here. Good for the grapes.” He took a few tentative steps closer. 

Alistair’s misery intensified. Sweet Andraste, was he really so pathetic that Dorian felt the need to come out here and make conversation? Stupid question: of course he was. Before he could dredge up a polite response, Dorian spoke again.

“I find that I have a confession to make.” 

_ Oh god, now he’s going to tell me about Hawke. _ “No, it’s fine, you don’t have to -” Alistair shook his head, trying to keep him from talking.

The patio doors opened again. Cassandra strode out. “Is anything amiss?” She gave Dorian a sidelong glance as she approached.

“Of course not.” Alistair chuckled weakly. “What makes you say that?” He realized as the words left his mouth that his face was all twisted up, and he struggled to smooth it into something more placid. 

Cassandra raised one eyebrow. “I came to tell you. I would like to leave.”

“Oh, er. I’ll just... grab my coat, then?” Over her shoulder, Alistair saw Dorian slump with disappointment and turn away. That didn’t make a lot of sense, but maybe he’d wanted to get the whole Hawke thing off his chest. 

“You misunderstand.” Cassandra glanced over her shoulder toward Dorian and leaned in, lowering her voice. “I wish to leave... with Varric. He has promised to show me the next issue of Swords and Shields,” she murmured. Two spots of color appeared on her cheeks.

_ “Ohhhh,”  _ Alistair heaved a sigh of relief. “Of course. Have fun,” he said. 

“Thank you for bringing me. I hope it does not impede things for you.” Cassandra said, patting him on the shoulder.

“Oh, well, I can do that all on my own.” Alistair gave her a rueful smile as she turned and headed back inside.

When Dorian turned back to him, he looked calm and friendly, no sign that he was uncomfortable. Maybe Alistair was imagining things. “Well, it was good to see you,” he began.

“I’m not going,” Alistair cut him off. “Er, she’s... ah... found another ride home.” He winced at his choice of words. “With Varric. She’s, um, a big fan.”

“Oh.” Dorian blinked. “So you’re not...?” 

“No. Just friends. I thought maybe... but it didn’t seem to work. But she still wanted to come tonight. And anyway -- it’s, it’s fine. You don’t have to tell me about Hawke. I’m glad it worked out for you.” Alistair tried for a smile. 

Dorian was shaking his head. “No, no you don’t understand. Hawke and I -- we had a drink, nothing more.”

“Y-you didn’t? But I-I thought....” Suddenly he felt just the tiniest bit less miserable.

Huffing in frustration, Dorian explained. “I won’t lie. I had been planning for that night to go differently, but then, well. I saw you. And I decided to go home. Ended up watching cartoons on the couch. God, I can’t believe I just admitted that.” He ran a hand through his hair.

Alistair’s mind was on the verge of mutiny from trying to figure out what was going on. Dorian watched cartoons? “It didn’t happen to be Dexter’s Laboratory, did it? The one where he teaches -”

“-the dog to talk, yes,” Dorian laughed. “I see I’m talking to a fellow connoisseur.”

Alistair grinned for the first time that evening. “Well, wait, so -- what were you trying to tell me?” His chest began to thud.

Dorian pulled his phone from his pocket with a shaking hand. “I owe you a text.”

The phone in Alistair’s pocket buzzed; automatically, Alistair pulled it out and called up the message.  _ I didn’t want to leave. _

He knew what the words meant, but his brain couldn’t parse them. “I don’t understand.” 

“I wanted to stay. The other night. I didn’t know how to say it and I kept putting off contacting you and... by the time I’d worked up the nerve, Felix told me you were bringing someone to the party. And then I made the questionable decision to try to get over it with a bit of mindless fun, and almost slept with your friend. Really, I’m not sure why you’re still talking to me at all.” Dorian winced and shook his head. “I seem to have practiced rather the wrong speech, it seems.”

Words were a thing that existed, Alistair realized. Now would be a good time to say basically any of them. But all he could do was stare at Dorian, his heart in his throat. 

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything,” Dorian went on. “Almost certainly, I suppose. I’ve behaved terribly, and I’m sorry. I suppose you had to find out eventually that I am both selfish and a coward, so perhaps sooner is better than later, no?” He gave a tight smile. 

It was the discomfort in Dorian's expression that prompted Alistair to speak. “You think you did something wrong?” Alistair squinted in confusion.

“My dear Alistair, I’m finding difficulty identifying anything at all that I did  _ right.”  _

“Y-you did lots of things right. You made me laugh and - and you didn’t spill anything on yourself and... you. Um. Made me feel, er, really good, actually. Better than I have in ages.” Alistair reached halfway toward Dorian's wrist before snatching it back.

“Was this before or after I gave you a nosebleed and then left you in the lurch with no contact?” Dorian asked sourly.

“Well the first was an accident and the second - I thought that was my fault,” Alistair’s admitted in a tiny voice. “For acting like such a child. Who kicks out someone like you?” He laughed nervously. “I just thought you realized you could do better.”

“Oh god,” Dorian flinched, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m so sorry. God. No. The opposite of that, in fact. Lord, look -- the fact I made you feel so bad proves it.” 

“I don’t feel bad now though,” Alistair said, swallowing hard. “In fact --”

The patio doors swung open a third time. The very large man that Alistair had seen hugging Dorian held a hand up to his mouth. “Come on, loverboys. Group picture time!” He waved them inside.

Dorian stared at the doors. “I hate him so much right now.”

“Who is he, anyway?” Alistair asked.

“Bull? He’s -- well. We, ah, had a very brief, casual thing, a very long time ago. And now he’s married to my ex-boyfriend.” He said it very matter-of-fact. “Still, best head inside before he picks us up and carries us in.” He moved towards the patio doors.

“You, maybe,” Alistair mumbled. “I’ve been eating cheese all night.” 

Dorian snickered, which turned into a full-throated laugh. “You are possibly the most delightful person I’ve ever met.” He held the door open for Alistair.

Alistair had no idea how to respond to that, but they were immediately swept into the milling crowd attempting to clot together for a picture, so maybe it didn’t matter. They ended up toward the back of the group, waiting as the server who had been pressed into photography duty lined up the shot on Felix’s phone. 

“No, sorry, you’ve got to cram together,” she called out. 

The group shuffled, and Dorian got knocked into Alistair. Without thinking, he put his hand on Dorian's shoulder to steady him. He felt the muscles in Dorian's arm tense, and he almost pulled his hand away, but then Dorian relaxed and moved closer, glancing briefly over his shoulder, as if he was asking permission.

Alistair’s heart was thumping again. He pulled very, very gently on Dorian's arm, and the man shifted again, coming to stand in front of Alistair’s shoulder, almost leaning into him. Alistair slid his hand down Dorian's arm, barely daring to breathe. He let his hand come to rest just above Dorian's wrist, stroking his thumb on the back of Dorian's hand. 

He heard Dorian inhale sharply, and looked down to see him blinking rapidly. Perhaps he sensed the scrutiny, because he looked up at Alistair. He had an expression that Alistair hadn’t seen yet; it almost looked like fear, his eyes wide and vulnerable. 

“Say cheese!” The girl called out. 

They both turned their attention to the front. It wasn’t hard to smile -- in fact it was hard to stop. Alistair felt Dorian shaking with repressed laughter, and they both dissolved into giggles as the crowd dispersed. 

“Would you like to get out of here?” Dorian asked, eyes now shining with amusement. 

“Yes please,” Alistair agreed. 

Dorian navigated them out of the party, which was good, Alistair decided. He himself was terrible at good-byes. It wasn’t so much the act of saying the words, as it was the ensuing minor guilt trip his friends would lay on him. Not that they were trying to make him feel bad, but he never had an answer when someone said “oh, you’re leaving?” and looked disappointed.

Dorian, however, did not seem to have that problem. “Yes, I’m afraid you’ll have to do without our sparkling presence,” he said, finding that halfway point between sarcasm and boasting, gliding them both closer to the door. He did stop for a hug from Felix, and then one from that Bull guy. Although in the second case it was more like Bull just picked him up while Dorian pretended to object. 

There was another man standing nearby, watching the whole thing with a subdued smirk. Must be Dorian's ex. Was that weird? Alistair wasn’t sure. He didn’t have any exes, unless Morrigan counted. And she wasn’t likely to come out of the woodwork anytime soon. Even if she did, Alistair couldn’t imagine her  _ hugging  _ anyone, least of all him.

Dorian's ex was unfairly handsome, becoming even more so when he laughed. And it wasn’t just his looks -- it was his haircut and his suit and how at ease he looked.  _ Maker, I’m in so far over my head, if that's what Dorian goes for. He looks like a lawyer or someone clever. _

As if hearing Alistair’s thoughts, the man turned to look at him. Alistair didn’t mean to stare, exactly. He tried for a polite nod.

The man stepped closer. “I’m Max, by the way. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself before.” He held out his hand.

“Alistair.” Shaking the man’s hand, he nodded at Bull, who had slung Dorian over his shoulder like a sack of grain and stood talking to Cullen as if there wasn’t an angry Tevinter punching him on the back. “Are they always like this?”

“My husband is very physical. I think this is his way of punishing Dorian for turning down our invitations over the years.” 

Before Alistair could wonder what kind of invitations Max was talking about, he continued. “I mean there are only so many times one can come down with a sudden headache the day of a dinner party,” Max drawled. “And we both miss Dorian. He can be ever so much fun.” 

“Right, yeah,” Alistair mumbled. The closest he’d ever come to hosting a dinner party was when Surana decided to have a clambake and invited all the Wardens over, and that was more “standing around a bonfire drinking beer” than dinner. 

“Maybe he’ll be more likely to come, now that he has a date,” Max noted, watching as Bull finally set Dorian down. 

“Does he?” Alistair blurted, his stomach clenching.

Max blinked at him.

“Oh you mean -  _ ohh,”  _ Alistair nodded. “Well, yes. Er. I-I hope so.”

Dorian marched up to him. “I apologize for the delay,” he sniffed.  _ “Someone _ decided I was to be mauled before leaving.”

Max scoffed. “You love it.”

It was clear by the twinkle in Dorian's eye that at the very least, he didn’t mind. “I suggest we leave before he decides you need to be wrestled, too,” he said to Alistair.

Alistair glanced over Dorian's shoulder at Bull, sizing him up. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve got a pretty good grapple.”

Both Dorian and Max raised their eyebrows. Dorian flushed and cleared his throat, while Max burst out laughing. Not in a mean way -- Alistair knew very well what it sounded like when someone was laughing  _ at  _ him. This was much warmer, making Alistair feel welcome. “Oh, you absolutely must must  _ must  _ come for dinner. I insist,” Max grinned. 

“Oh good lord,” Dorian muttered, pulling Alistair away. “Yes, nice to see you too, Max.”

“Good meeting you,” Max said to Alistair.

“Likewise,” Alistair called over his shoulder as Dorian hustled him out the door. 

Once outside, Dorian continued to grumble under his breath until they reached the parking lot. “I’m sorry about that,” he said aloud finally. “I hope Bull’s antics didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“As long as you didn’t mind. You were the one being manhandled, not me.”

They stopped by Alistair’s SUV. “I’m accustomed to his little displays of friendship. It helps to think of Bull like a very large dog or an affectionate elephant,” Dorian said. “Regardless. What would you like to do now? I know a place that's open all night with halfway decent coffee.”

Alistair hadn’t realized how tense he was until he relaxed at Dorian's words. As happy as he was to have reconnected, he wasn’t sure he wanted to go straight back to his house again. “You’re not talking about the truckstop off the Kingsway, are you?”

Dorian smiled. “I see you know it.”

“We used to go there for breakfast on Sunday,” Alistair said.  _ You really, really need to stop saying ‘we’. _

Dorian ignored Alistair’s wince, though he was fairly certain he saw it. “Do you need to go home first, take care of Kevin? I can meet you there.”

“Actually, that would be great,” Alistair nodded. “I hate leaving him home alone for too long.”

“All right. I’ll see you there in... a half hour? Is that long enough?”

“Sounds good,” Alistair said. He hesitated. Should he hug Dorian? Try to kiss him? 

Dorian also hedged for a minute, but then he reared up on his tiptoes. He didn’t kiss Alistair’s lips, but his cheek. 

For an instant, Alistair was embarrassed; did Dorian think he was such a goody-two-shoes? But then he registered the sensation. This was no perfunctory peck; he felt the warmth of Dorian's breath, the way Dorian's lips lingered on his skin, the subtle nuzzle of the tip of Dorian's nose along his cheekbone, the trail of his fingers into Alistair’s hairline.

Without thinking, Alistair leaned into it, his breath shuddering. Dorian pulled back, looking up into his eyes with an inscrutable expression. “See you soon?”

“Yes,” Alistair whispered. Dorian gave a tentative smile and headed toward his car. Alistair took a steadying breath and got into the Range Rover. He still wasn’t quite sure what was happening, but he felt good. And good was better than bad. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do people give speeches at engagement parties? They do now.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Alistair decide to get some coffee after the party. The late-night diner scene isn't exactly romantic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mind the tags!

Pushing open the doors to the diner, Dorian surveyed the restaurant. He’d come straight from the party and was fairly sure Alistair wouldn’t be there yet. It being nearly midnight on a Saturday, the place was quiet. A couple of truckers sat at the counter, but that was it. Most importantly, there were no drunk college kids. Dorian expected they’d show up after the bars closed, but hopefully he and Alistair would get an hour or so of peace and quiet.

He slid into a booth by the back corner. A moment later the waitress came by. It was an older woman; he’d seen her there many times, though usually not this late. She slid a cup of coffee and a glass of water in front of him without being asked. “Long time no see.”

“I could say the same,” Dorian smiled, reaching for the little pitcher of cream. “You’re here terribly late.”

The woman shrugged. “One of the girls is expecting. She needs the sleep more than I do, so I traded her shifts.”

“You’re far too kind for this world. You do know that, yes?” 

“Is this your way of saying you’re going to plant yourself here and only order coffee for three hours? You don’t even have your sketchbook.” 

“I’m, er, meeting someone. So you’ll have two of us drinking coffee for three hours.” Dorian batted his eyelashes. 

She laughed, throaty and deep, and patted his shoulder. “Never could resist a pretty face.”

As she walked away, Dorian glanced out the window and saw Alistair’s car pull into the parking lot. He fought the urge to grin like an idiot. Dorian was bound and determined to refrain from pushing too far or too fast. He was never one to waste a second chance.

Alistair walked in and looked around. Dorian looked up and smiled. Alistair returned the grin and took a step closer, before stopping short as the waitress came out from the kitchen. She dropped a handful of cutlery, the metal clanging to the floor. “Alistair?”

“Hello, Wynne,” he said, his grin dimming into something rueful. 

“Oh sweetie come here.” Wynne hurried from around the counter and gave him a hug.

Dorian had the impression he was witnessing something close to a family reunion. Not that he would know, exactly. It was poignant in a way he couldn’t quite define. He’d been coming to this diner for years, and he’d never thought to learn anyone’s name. No surprise that Alistair was more friendly. He had said that they had come to breakfast here -- Dorian had to assume that meant he and his late wife. It would stand to reason he’d stopped coming after she died. 

Not for the first time, Dorian felt the creep of self-doubt. He knew next to nothing about Surana save her name and that Alistair had been head over heels for her. Meanwhile Dorian had already proven to him that he was cowardly, shallow, and selfish. Not that it was a competition, but one does like to feel worthy. 

He forced himself to put his doubt aside as Alistair approached. He smiled. “All well with the master of the house?”

Alistair snorted and sat. “Don’t let him hear you talking like that, it’ll go to his head.”

Wynne bustled over with a mug of cocoa and a small bowl full of mini marshmallows. Alistair laughed even as he winced. “Thanks, Wynne.”

“What, it’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” she tutted. 

“Well, yes, but....” He glanced at Dorian and blushed. 

Wynne looked between them. She raised an eyebrow. “Alistair Theirin, there’s nothing embarrassing about liking hot chocolate.” She sounded exactly like a scolding grandmother. “Are you going to pretend you don’t want pie, as well?” Wynne asked.

Alistair slid down in his seat a little. “We just came from dinner,” he pleaded. 

Wynne put a hand on her hip. “Apple just came out of the oven an hour ago.”

Alistair glanced at Dorian. “Maybe just a small piece.”

Dorian put a hand on Wynne’s arm. “Make it a very large piece, and two forks.”

She gave him a shadow of a wink and left. 

“The pie here is my favorite,” Alistair admitted. “I can’t resist it.”

They chatted for a few minutes about the party. Dorian was looking for an angle to turn the conversation to what, exactly, they were doing, but no opportunities cropped up. And then Wynne returned with the pie and a refill of coffee for Dorian. 

Alistair took a large bite of pie, humming in contentment. “I have to say, I wouldn’t expect you’d come here.”

Dorian helped himself to a small forkful; it was, in fact, delicious. “No?”

“Well it’s a bit, um....”

Dorian laughed. “I don’t spend all my time at four-star restaurants. And I have trouble sleeping. Sometimes I do some sketching. Always good to know a friendly place that’ll let you drink coffee all night. For when the cartoons aren’t enough.” He took another bite of pie. Motion out the window caught his attention, and his heart sank.

A second later the doors burst open and a throng of drunken college students poured in. Dorian could tell at a glance that this group was drunk in the wrong way -- rowdy and mean rather than jolly. Didn’t matter much, even jolly drunks were loud and obnoxious. What’s worse, they had Ferelden University hats. If they had been from Skyhold, there was a chance that one might have recognized him as a professor. At least Dorian could have tried to intimidate them into something resembling polite comportment. So much for a quiet end to the night.

The group took the large corner booth, sitting right behind Alistair. Alistair himself continued to eat pie. The last kid staggered up behind his friends, his eyes taking in the shared dessert on Dorian's table. Of course. Maker forbid two straight men should share a dessert; they might catch The Gay. Though this wasn’t Tevinter, it was still the Hinterlands. Homophobia hadn’t been eradicated, merely gone to ground like a blighted nug. It certainly didn’t help that he was obviously from the north, either. Dorian ground his teeth together and refused to look up.

Alistair realized there was something wrong, first looking up at Dorian, then turning to regard the kid swaying over him. “Am I missing something?”

One of the two girls in the booth tugged on his sleeve. “Come on, Kyle.”

Kyle took another second to glance between Dorian and Alistair before joining his compatriots, sliding into the booth where he could glare at Dorian. 

“What - is something wrong?” Alistair leaned forward. 

Dorian shook his head. “Nothing’s wrong,” he lied, giving Alistair a bland smile. 

“Do you know them?”

Dorian did not look over Alistair’s shoulder, but he could feel the scrutiny that was being cast in their direction. Alistair himself was the picture of innocent concern. Maker bless him, but he’d never experienced this, Dorian realized. Of course, how would he have, if he’d never dated a man before. “Let’s just say I know the type.”

The murmuring which came from the corner table was just audible, and was peppered with a wide variety of slurs, mostly regarding sexual orientation, but with a few racial epithets thrown in for good measure. One of the girls made a weak attempt to shush the others, while her compatriot merely giggled. Alistair’s eyes widened in comprehension, and then narrowed in anger.

Dorian kept his face composed. This kind of thing seldom came to an open altercation, and Wynne would surely support him and Alistair over a gaggle of beer-soaked punks. Still, he had no desire to sit through it. “You know I’m quite tired,” he said, his voice neutral. “I think I might call it a night once I’m done with my coffee.”

Alistair frowned and nodded. He continued to scowl as he took a sip of hot cocoa, only to have one of the mini-marshmallows cling to the end of his nose. Even with the unwelcome attention from the students, it was irresistibly charming. Dorian suppressed a laugh as best he could. “You, ah, have a little...” he said, pointing to his own nose. 

“What? Oh, right.” Alistair grabbed a handful of napkins and dabbed at his face. 

From the table behind them, one of the guys muttered something about it not being the first time he’d gotten something white and sticky on his face. Dorian sighed and let his eyes fall closed. “I’m just going to use the restroom.”

In all honesty, he didn’t need to go to the bathroom. But it was an excuse to get up, and he could pay the tab on his way back. He slid out of the booth. Dorian should have known better than to walk by the table, but to go around would’ve felt like a needless acknowledgement that the kids were getting to him. He kept his head high and strode past.

Kyle stuck his foot out, causing him to stumble into one of the nearby empty tables. Dorian had a second to decide what to do as he straightened up. If he’d been alone, he’d have left it. But he wasn’t alone, and from the corner of his eye he saw Alistair turn. So he stood his ground, unsure of how to defuse the situation.

“Watch where you’re going,” Kyle jeered. A chorus of answering laughter rose from the table of students. From behind the counter, Wynne looked up from her conversation with one of the other customers.

Alistair, meanwhile, stood. Intellectually, Dorian was aware that the man was large, but there were very few people who could pull off rising to one’s feet as an act of intimidation. The laughter from the table subsided into spluttered shushing, though it still managed to sound derogatory. 

Kyle stood as well. He, however, was not a large person. When Alistair loomed over him, the kid had to crane his neck to stare back. Inebriation, however, had apparently taken over his ability to understand basic physics. “What?”

“Just waiting for an apology for my friend.” Alistair’s voice was very quiet. 

Kyle jabbed his finger in Alistair’s chest. “Fuck you. I don’t owe you fa-”

There was a flurry of motion. Kyle was on the ground almost instantly, Alistair gripping one of Kyle’s arms, twisted around with no way to get up. Alistair raised his voice to a normal speaking tone. “Try again.”

“What the fuck, man, you can’t do that.” One of the other guys jumped to his feet, then realized that he’d have to step on his friend to get to Alistair.

“You want me to let him up?” Alistair bent and lifted Kyle by his collar, practically tossing him at the second kid. They both toppled backwards into the booth behind them. One of the girls yelped, though the other laughed.

“Alistair!” Wynne snapped. She sounded more annoyed than anything.

Immediately, Alistair’s posture shifted from intimidating to meek. “Sorry, Wynne.” He leaned over to pick up one of the chairs that had been knocked over. 

Kyle lurched up and tried to get in a punch. Alistair dodged it easily and spun him into a standing submission hold. “Kyle, really bud, you’re terrible at this. Take some krav maga or  _ something.  _ I mean really.”

By now, Kyle had lost the sympathies of his compatriots. The girls, in particular, were blatantly checking Alistair out. The kid who had come to Kyle’s aid was shaking his head, and the third guy was openly laughing. 

“Or aikido,” Alistair continued. “Really anything works if you study long enough.”

Kyle squirmed but had no leverage. “Fuck you, man.” His voice came out as a weak squeal. 

“Is that code for ‘I’m sorry I insulted you’ now? I’m so out of touch.” 

“Alistair, you let him go,” Wynne called out, not looking up from wiping down the counter.

Huffing in disappointment, Alistair loosened his hold and Kyle stumbled forward. This time, however, he scooted into the relative safety of the booth, his face tomato-red. Dorian couldn’t bring himself to look too closely, focusing instead on regulating his breathing as he followed Alistair out. Distantly, he heard himself murmur a few apologies to Wynne over the roar of adrenaline that was coursing through his system. 

It wasn’t until he was by Alistair’s car that he realized how badly he was shaking. 

“Maker, are you all right?” Alistair grabbed his elbow as he sagged.

“Just a little shaken up.” Dorian managed a tight smile. “I’ll be fine.” And he would be, eventually. He’d certainly had his fair share of harassment over the years -- it was part and parcel of living as a Tevinter in Ferelden. It had never spilled over into actual violence though, even if that violence had been purely in his defense. His body didn’t seem to understand the difference.

“Andraste preserve me, I didn’t even think. I’m so sorry. I never should have - I just got so angry at them - I didn’t think --” Alistair babbled.

“Nonsense,” Dorian deflected automatically. “That brat was spoiling to show off. You handled it.” 

“Yes but you were supposed to feel better, not worse,” Alistair said. “Maker, you can’t drive like this. Do you want me to drive you home?” 

Dorian was taking deep breaths, hoping his tunnel vision would subside. The idea of facing the overwhelming silence of his home made him feel ill. Normally, it was a refuge, but right now he didn’t want to be alone with this frantic energy that had no outlet. 

He must’ve paused a second too long, because Alistair went on. “Or my place? I can build a fire, have the dog sit in your lap. He loves helping people calm down. Helped me loads of times. I think he like it better than walkies.”

“Yes, all right,” Dorian said, as much to get him to stop talking than anything else. Alistair was right: he couldn’t drive in this condition, and he didn’t fancy sitting in his car while he waited for his limbic system to come back online. The diner was about halfway between their houses, so it wasn’t like he was putting the man out too terribly. 

Alistair continued to prattle as he drove, giving Dorian a long overview of some military history which had happened in the area a few hundred years ago. Unlike earlier, it was soothing, serving both to fill the silence and relieve Dorian of the burden of speaking himself.

Upon their arrival at the house a few minutes later, the dog came barreling down the entryway, skidding to a stop just in front of Dorian. “Hello Kevin,” he murmured.

“Buddy, your dad made a mess of things again,” Alistair said in that overly-singsongy way people had with dogs. “You want to help? Yeah? Go find something to help daddy’s friend, okay?”

The dog boofed and scampered off. 

“Alistair, you didn’t make a mess of it,” Dorian objected. “You just have a different way of dealing with things, that's all.”

“Mmm, you sound like Cullen,” Alistair said, leading him by the elbow to the living room. “He always tries to make me feel better about screwing up. It’s why he’s such a good politician.”

Dorian sat on the couch as Alistair fetched a large fleece blanket. “I’m relatively certain that my anxiety disorder was around long before I met you. I’m just not used to... oh hello, what’s this?” The dog came trotting up, depositing a somewhat saliva-soaked fluffy  _ thing  _ on Dorian's lap.

“Oh, you got the hedgehog,” Alistair nodded. “Good boy, buddy. Everyone loves a hedgehog.” He picked up the toy from Dorian's lap and tossed it. Kevin gave chase. Alistair, meanwhile, swaddled Dorian with the blanket. He put his hands just over Dorian's shoulders, leaning in close. “Listen,” he said, cutting off Dorian's objections. “I should’ve asked you how you wanted to deal with those kids. It’s easy for me; I’m used to fighting. I was never in a whit of danger. It should have occurred to me that you might be rightly nervous in that situation. And it didn’t. And I’m sorry. And I promise, it won’t happen again.” He didn’t lean away. 

“All right,” Dorian said. “And thank you. As grand gestures go, it was... quite something.”

Tentatively, Alistair leaned even further, closing the inches in stops and starts. Dorian held still, not wanting to push. Finally, he felt Alistair’s lips on the corner of his mouth, just under his moustache. It was lingering, as his own kiss on Alistair’s cheek had been. Dorian turned into it, offering more, but not taking.

Alistair kissed his way across Dorian's lips, chaste nibbles that were agonizing slow. The glacial pace and tentative nature should’ve been frustrating or dull. Dorian found it neither. It was, instead, achingly sweet and impossibly sexy.

And then Alistair pulled away, not far, just enough to break the kiss, but still to feel the wisp of breath on Dorian's lips. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Didn’t mean to -- you’re upset and --”

“Please don’t apologize,” Dorian said. He was about to admit that he’d been daydreaming of Alistair’s lips for weeks when he felt a large, solid, fuzzy dog head nudge its way into his lap.

Alistair leaned back. “Buddy,” he chided the dog. The mabari whuffed and looked at the door.

“It’s fine,” Dorian said, sliding his hand up Alistair’s neck. “Go ahead and take care of him.”

“Are-are you sure? Do you need anything?” 

“Absolutely. I’m fine.”

With a jerky nod, Alistair stood. He didn’t immediately walk away, however, looking down at Dorian as if he wanted to say something else. But the words dried up on his lips, possibly because they both realized how provocative the position was: Dorian was practically at eye level with Alistair’s crotch. And if the bulge under the cloth was anything to go by, he was at least halfway to hard.

Alistair swallowed hard. The dog, however, would not be put off, whining and pawing at the door.

“Right,” Alistair said. “Back in a second.”

Dorian settled back on the couch once he was alone. He realized he hadn’t really thought it through, coming back here. He was more than capable of driving now. And he had no idea how long Alistair intended for him to stay. He was certainly in no hurry to leave, however.

Alistair came back a moment later. Letting the dog off the leash, he patted the animal’s chest. “Bedtime, Buddy. Good boy, there you go.” The dog trotted off to a well-worn bed in the corner and laid down. 

“So, er, I could -- build a fire, if you like, or....” Alistair hesitated, looking around for ideas.

“A fire sounds lovely.”

Alistair relaxed. “Lovely,” he repeated. 

Dorian watched as Alistair fussed at the fireplace. He had the flames crackling merrily in next to no time, and without filling the room with smoke as Dorian would no doubt have done. “Good,” he said, rising to his feet and wiping his hands. He turned round and regarded Dorian. “I. Um. This is going to sound weird.”

Dorian laughed. “What is it?”

“I’d, um, really like to change my clothes. I can give you something comfy too if you’d like. Is that weird? It’s weird, isn’t it.”

Grinning, Dorian tilted his head. “Maybe just a smidge. But I won’t tell if you won’t.”

He followed Alistair to the bedroom. This time the room was neat and tidy, and Alistair retrieved a pair of sweatpants and a waffle-knit henley from the dresser. “Er, will these work?”

“I don’t see why not,” Dorian said. He took the clothes and ducked into the bathroom. As tempting as it was to watch Alistair change, he didn’t want to force the moment. 

It did feel good to get out of his party clothes. The sweatpants were far too long, and the shirt sleeves were loose on his biceps, but it was comfy and warm. The clothes had the faint scent of dryer sheets and sawdust, and Dorian absolutely did not hold the fabric to his face and smile.

He padded out into the living room. Alistair was adding a chunk of wood to the fire. He was wearing a nearly identical outfit, just different colors. The clothes fit him more than simply because the size was correct; he looked much more at ease than he had in his finery.

“Can I help?” Dorian asked.

“Oh no,” Alistair waved him off. “I was thinking maybe a bit of brandy would be nice. Good after a shock. That's what the monks said. Though if they were anything to go by, being a monk was pretty shocking -- they went through a lot of it.”

“I’d love a brandy,” Dorian smiled, sinking down into the couch. “And I suppose one must take the pleasures allowed, if one is to be a man of the cloth.”

Alistair made his way into the kitchen. “I suppose you’re right.” 

Dorian heard clinking and the sound of cabinet doors being opened and closed. A moment later Alistair re-emerged with two heavy-bottomed tumblers with whiskey logos etched on them. “Sorry, I don’t have any of the right kinds of glasses. Hope these work.”

“It’s fine,” Dorian smiled. He clinked Alistair’s glass and took a sip. It wasn’t bad, thank the Maker. One never knows with brandy.

“You probably have some, don’t you?” Alistair guessed, sitting awkwardly a few inches away from Dorian. 

“Brandy snifters? I do,” Dorian admitted. “I drew the line at those tiny glasses for sherry, though.”

“Eugh, sherry. Tastes like raisins soaked in cough syrup.” Alistair shuddered.

Dorian laughed. “Not a fan, I see.” 

“Guh. No. I mean, um, you know, maybe I’ve just never had the good stuff, that's likely....” His voice trailed off and he looked away, twiddling with the fringe of a throw pillow. He took a hasty drink.

Dorian had the distinct impression he was making the man uncomfortable; Dorian did, after all, have exquisite taste, and they were still getting to know one another. “I quite agree. I mostly use it in sauces, myself.”

Alistair relaxed visibly. “Do you cook a lot?” 

“I used to. Not so much any more. You?” That, thankfully, got the conversation rolling. Alistair, it turned out, loved to cook. It was quite pleasant, Dorian decided, to sit there in front of the fire, sipping his drink and watching Alistair’s face light up with passion as he spoke. He had this way of twitching his nose when he warmed to his subject that was nothing short of delightful. 

Alas, there were other side effects that came with a crackling fire and brandy, especially after the massive ups and downs of the evening. Dorian found his eyelids growing heavy, and he propped his head on his hand, leaning on the back of the couch.

“Maker, I’ve been prattling, and you’re exhausted. I can take you back to your car, or make up the couch, or....” Once again, Alistair looked all around, as if trying to come up with other ideas. 

It wasn’t that Dorian had expected anything, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a pinprick of disappointment. Especially after that kiss. Despite his fatigue, there was still something in him that was humming in anticipation. “I don’t fancy getting in a cold car now,” he admitted. “If you don’t mind me staying, that is.”

“No! No, not... not at all,” Alistair stammered. “I’ll just get you a proper blanket, then? And a pillow.”

“If that's what you want,” Dorian said, keeping his voice neutral. 

Alistair hummed and set his glass down on the coffee table. He clutched his hands together, rubbing his fingers. “What if it’s not?” His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, then he fixed Dorian with a direct look. 

Dorian allowed himself a calming breath. “I don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

Looking away, Alistair nodded several times, in that way that people did when they weren’t sure what to say next. 

“Alistair,” Dorian said gently, laying a hand on his arm. “It’s all right.” He wasn’t sure what he meant by that, exactly, only that he hoped to put Alistair at ease.

Alistair rubbed the back of his neck. “I... um. Don’t want you to be disappointed. If. Ah. Things don’t go according to plan.” His nervous chuckle was heartbreaking.

Dorian couldn’t help it; he leaned over, sliding his hand up Alistair’s cheek. “Alistair. I’m just happy to be here at all, honestly.”

“Really?” 

“Well as long as you don’t expect me to sleep with the dog,” Dorian said, letting his hand fall to Alistair’s shoulder. 

“You wouldn’t like that. He farts a lot,” Alistair admitted.

“As long as you don’t,” Dorian laughed.

Alistair laughed too, a breathy huff. “Okay,” Alistair whispered. “Um. Shall we?” He stood and held his hand out.

Dorian took it and rose to his feet. “Lead the way.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian stays the night, for better or worse.

“No, I know I have one,” Alistair insisted. He rooted in the cabinet under the bathroom sink, groping blindly.

“It’s fine, really. Don’t worry about it,” Dorian said. 

“Oh ye of little faith.” Alistair gave up and actually stuck his upper body into the cabinet. “Aha!” He only hit his head lightly as he drew back, holding aloft a plastic grocery bag half-full of hotel soaps and trial size bottles of shampoo. “I emerge victorious.” He reached in the bag and pulled out an unwrapped toothbrush.

Dorian was smiling, so that was good. He was smiling and he was  _ here,  _ in Alistair’s house. God, how had that happened? 

“Do you travel often?” Dorian nodded at the bag. 

“What? Oh, no. Almost never. Cullen brought these over, ages ago. Um. I had a lot of company for a bit. You’ll probably want a towel too, let me just....” Alistair made himself busy with fetching a hand towel from the linen closet rather than explain further. The month after Surana had died, his friends had taken turns staying with him. Not exactly something he wanted to talk about.

Dorian did not ask for clarification, just took the towel and thanked Alistair. Once the bathroom door shut, Alistair wiped at his face. Maker, could he go for an hour without thinking about Surana’s death? Was that really too much to ask? 

The sound of running water ceased, and Alistair forced himself to stand up straight. Dorian emerged a moment later. “Your turn.”

Alistair took his time brushing his teeth. It was weird, this. Dorian had said he didn’t expect anything, but it was still weird, just getting ready for bed. There was only so long one could brush one’s teeth, however, and eventually Alistair rinsed his mouth and turned the water off. 

Dorian was already under the covers. He’d taken off the clothes Alistair had given him and folded them neatly on the dresser, but his shoulders were covered by a white undershirt. That meant he was probably wearing underpants as well, Alistair realized. He stripped off his own shirt and sweatpants and crawled into the bed in his boxers, clicking off the light.

“This is a little strange, I have to say,” Dorian admitted. 

“Is it? I’m glad it’s not just me,” Alistair said. 

“Are there any odd sleep habits I should know about? Snoring? Talking in your sleep? Hogging of the blankets?” 

“Er, no?” Alistair wracked his brain, trying to remember. He’d only really ever shared a bed with Surana, and she hoarded the blankets like a miser as well as snoring like a bear, so it was hard to know if he had any bad habits.

“Mmm, we’ll see,” Dorian drawled. “I’d ask the dog but I have a feeling he’d take your side.”

“Most likely,” Alistair agreed. “He’s ever so loyal.” 

There was a lull. Alistair was the opposite of relaxed. Not only was he nervous, but his veins tingled with want. His skin almost ached from the proximity to Dorian's body. 

“Alistair,” Dorian murmured. “I’d like to kiss you.” 

“Okay,” Alistair whispered.

He felt the bed shift, and then Dorian was there, leaning over him, one hand sliding across his chest and up his neck. For a moment, Alistair laid still as Dorian's lips brushed gently against his own. When he felt Dorian's breath puff, just a whisper of a sigh, he groaned and leaned up, hands grasping Dorian closer. 

Dorian scrambled to straddle him, his kisses becoming desperate. Alistair gripped his hips, rutting up against him with a moan.

“Is this alright?” Dorian whispered, as if Alistair wasn’t the one holding him in place, kissing along the column of his neck greedily. 

“Maker, yes, yes.”

Only then did Dorian move his own hips, moaning indulgently as he ground down on Alistair. The feeling of his cock sliding next to Alistair’s was nothing short of intoxicating, and Alistair instinctively moved his hands from Dorian's hips to his ass, squeezing as much as he could reach. 

Dorian moaned again, this time in surprise. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Alistair murmured, flinging his hands to the side.

“God, no, don’t be sorry,” Dorian said, grabbing his hands and dragging them back. “I like it. I won’t break.” 

“Really?” Alistair winced. 

Dorian's teeth dragged along his earlobe. “What if I told you I like it a little rough?”

Alistair shuddered under him. “Do you?”

“Very much. What do  _ you  _ like, Alistair?”

Alistair’s mind had gone blank. “I... I should be able to answer this, shouldn’t I?”

Dorian hummed with subdued laughter. “Am I distracting you?” He rutted his hips. 

“Maker, you are  _ so  _ distracting,” Alistair groaned. 

“I’ll just stop then, shall I?” Dorian made to roll off him.

“Oh no you don’t,” Alistair grunted, holding him in place. 

Dorian gasped when Alistair’s fingers dug into his hips. “That’s more like it.”

Alistair had always tried to be very careful during sex, aware that his size and strength wasn’t necessarily an asset. Surana had been passionate, but she was tiny and bruised quite easily. Their lovemaking had been intensely satisfying, but Surana had taken the lead and he’d been happy to follow.

But Dorian wasn’t small, and Alistair could feel his muscles under the thin fabric of his underclothes. And more importantly, he clearly  _ wanted _ Alistair to... well, Alistair wasn’t sure, exactly. 

“What do you want me to do?” Alistair whispered.

“Not to worry so much,” Dorian said, cradling his face in both hands. “This is supposed to be fun, remember.”

“Is it? I seem to remember a lot of Chantry lessons that said just the opposite.”

Dorian gave a very unsexy snort, burying his face in the crook of Alistair’s neck. His body shook with laughter. 

Alistair laughed too, a bit sheepishly at first, but then losing himself to it. Eventually they both calmed down, Dorian cuddled atop him. Alistair let his hands stroke up and down Dorian's back.

“That feels nice,” Dorian murmured. 

Emboldened, Alistair slid his hands under Dorian's undershirt, continuing to aimlessly slide his fingers across Dorian's skin, mapping the muscle and bone. Dorian made a contented noise and wriggled closer.

He dragged his fingertips down Dorian's spine; it had felt quite nice when Dorian had done it that first night, so perhaps the man enjoyed it himself. Dorian shivered and gasped, so Alistair did it again. This time he moaned, grinding just a little as he mouthed Alistair’s neck. Alistair repeated the gesture, lightening his touch till he was barely in contact at all, ghosting his fingers over Dorian's back.

Whatever he was doing was clearly working for Dorian; he’d begun to pant, his hips making tiny circles. Alistair kept it up, until some instinct made him scrape his nails down Dorian's back.

Dorian's head jerked back and he whined, eyes screwed shut as he rutted sharply against Alistair. They were both fully hard again, and even through the fabric the pressure against Alistair’s cock made him groan. He did it again.

Eyes snapping open, Dorian looked down at him, biting his lip. “God, you keep that up, I’m going to come.”

“Really?” Alistair gasped. “Like this?” He scraped his hand down Dorian's back again.

Dorian nodded. “Ungh, fuck, yes. Harder.”

As much as Alistair wanted to comply, Dorian's shirt was getting in the way. He grunted in frustration as the fabric caught in his hand. 

Dorian scrambled to get the shirt off. This time Alistair used both hands, and Dorian whimpered, rocking against him. “Feels good, god, it feels good.”

The last time they’d been together, Alistair had been too close to his own orgasm to be able to appreciate how exquisite Dorian was when he came. Maker, it was unreal. The way his body shuddered, the panting that turned into moaning that turned into a broken wail of pleasure, even the way he smelled, it was incredible. 

And then Dorian's body jerked, all out of rhythm, his feet scrabbling for purchase in the sheets as he came. Alistair wrapped his arms around him as he rode out the aftershocks. 

Dorian didn’t take long to recover, though. He slithered down Alistair’s body, pulling down his boxers as he moved. Alistair groaned as his cock sprang free, and then swore as he felt Dorian's tongue glide from root to tip.

“Do you want a....” Alistair’s words collapsed into a moan.

“Do I need one?” Dorian chuckled, throwing Alistair’s own question from their first night back at him.

“Quite honestly, no,” Alistair admitted. “But if you --  _ ohsweetMaker!”  _ Apparently Dorian didn’t think he needed a condom, judging by the way he slid Alistair’s cock into his mouth. 

It wasn’t as if Alistair was a stranger to blowjobs. But Dorian was doing things with his tongue and hands that Alistair had never experienced, or even thought to ask for. It took him a moment to fully process what half the sensations were; he had to look down to see that Dorian was sucking gently on his balls, eyes glittering as he watched Alistair’s reaction. 

“That feels amazing,” Alistair groaned, letting his head fall back on the pillow. 

“Does it?” Dorian smirked and sucked him down to the base. 

“Maker, yes.” 

Dorian withdrew, gasping slightly. He reached for Alistair’s hands, fisted in the sheets, and pulled them toward his head. “Show me,” he said. “Show me how you like it.”

Alistair hesitated, laying his hands gently on Dorian's head. Dorian, meanwhile, suckled him halfway down, leaving plenty of room for Alistair to move both his hips and his hands. When Dorian moaned around his cock, Alistair bucked his hips upward.

Dorian made encouraging noises, nodding rapidly. It felt decadent, wanton, his desire stripped to a raw nerve. Alistair grunted, fucking up into Dorian's mouth with shallow, rapid thrusts. His fingers tightened in Dorian's hair.

Dorian's moans became more insistent. But he wasn’t gagging, and he had enough freedom of motion to back away if it was too much. Alistair let himself go, his orgasm coiling tight as he fucked Dorian's mouth. He came with a snarl, jerking his hips as he felt Dorian milk him with his tongue. 

Dimly, he realized he was still pulling Dorian's hair, and he loosened his grip with a gasp. “Maker,” he croaked. “Are you all right?”

“Oh yes,” Dorian purred, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. He rolled to the side and clambered up to lay beside Alistair. “That was wonderful.” He sighed in deep contentment. “Before I get too comfy, however, I really should tidy up. Do you mind if I turn on the light?” He reached for the lamp on his side of the bed.

When Alistair nodded, Dorian turned the light on. He was twisted around, his back criss-crossed with angry welts from Alistair’s nails. “Maker’s breath,” Alistair blurted.

“What?” Dorian turned around sharply.

“Your back.” Alistair reached forward, hesitating at the last second. He traced the air an inch above Dorian's skin. “I’m so sorry. Do you need... I don’t know,” Alistair fretted.

Dorian had relaxed almost immediately. “It’s fine,” he assured Alistair. “I told you, I like it a little rough.”

“Yes but,” Alistair huffed. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

“No,” Dorian answered at once. He tilted his head to qualify the statement. “My skin feels a little tight, but that's all,” Dorian said. He squirmed, wrinkling his nose. “The more pressing concern is that I need to go clean up. Back in a second.” He scurried out, grabbing some discarded clothes as he went.

A moment later Alistair heard the water in the bathroom running. He frantically tried to get his bearings. It shouldn’t have been so alluring, so satisfying, to see how he’d... he’d  _ hurt _ Dorian. True, Dorian liked it, asked for it, but somehow Alistair hadn’t expected the evidence of it to linger, any more than an orgasm lingers. He certainly hadn’t expected the sight of Dorian's skin to make him vibrate with... what even was this sensation? Alistair didn’t know. Perhaps it was simply exhaustion.

Dorian reappeared in the doorway a moment later, dressed in the clothes Alistair had loaned him. He clambered into bed and clicked the light off, then snuggled up next to him, wriggling contentedly. “Much better,” he said, voice thick with a suppressed yawn.

“Good.” Alistair replied out of habit. His confusion was rapidly losing the battle to his fatigue, and he was asleep in a few minutes.

***

It wasn’t so much the sensation of waking in a strange bed that had Dorian confused. He’d woken a half-dozen times during the night in various stages of disorientation, so it wasn’t as if he had forgotten where he was. But when he awoke finally, the pale rays of morning shining through the slats of the blinds, he was alone, and it was a sound that was confounding him. Rhythmic, but not regular, and just on the edges of familiarity.

Unable to place the sound, Dorian got up and went to the bathroom. Whatever the noise was, it seemed to be coming from outside. It wasn’t until Dorian made his way to the living area and looked out the window that he gained clarity. Sweet maker, the man was  _ chopping wood.  _

Dorian gaped out the sliding glass doors. Alistair’s back was to the house, and he was a dozen yards away, but even at that distance Dorian could see the confidence in his stance, the easy familiarity with which he held the axe. Alistair wasn’t shirtless, but it wasn’t hard to imagine the muscles at work, especially now that Dorian had gotten to see them up close and personal once again.

Dorian's initial urge to laugh at just how  _ cliche  _ it all was died when he saw the sheer physicality involved. So far he’d witnessed Alistair as a literal knight in shining armor, and then as Dorian’s own personal protector, but this was something else again. This wasn’t a display for Dorian's benefit, but simply Alistair cutting wood for himself. This was what he  _ did. _

It was hypnotic, and not just from a sensual perspective. True, there was more than a little appeal in watching Alistair’s ass as he bent to select a chunk of wood and set it on the stump. And then the pause as the axe swung over his head, followed by the unmistakable sound of the chop itself, the wood split cleanly down the middle. 

Dorian drew closer. He waited until Alistair was grabbing another chunk of wood and slid the door open. 

The sound caused Alistair to turn. His face lit up. “You’re awake.”

“I am. Though I feel frightfully lazy in comparison.” He stepped onto the back patio.

“Well, I  _ was _ lazy, otherwise this would be done by now. I should’ve started much earlier in the season. Meant to do more yesterday, but, well.” Alistair laughed sheepishly. “Would you like some breakfast?”

“I don’t want to put you through any trouble,” Dorian warned.

“No, no trouble. Gives me an excuse to make something special.” Alistair closed the distance between them. He had tiny flecks of bark and sawdust clinging to the front of his shirt. 

“Let me help, at least?”

“Deal,” Alistair agreed. “You probably drink coffee in the morning, I’m guessing? I’m rubbish at making coffee, so I’ll let you handle that.” He whistled and snapped his fingers. The dog, who’d been lazing on a pile of leaves, perked to attention. He heaved himself up and trotted over.

They all went back inside. Alistair deposited an armful of wood in the holder by the fireplace, then brushed his hands. “Breakfast,” he said decisively. “I'm famished.”

“I imagine that happens when you wake with the dawn and do manly things,” Dorian drawled. 

Alistair chuckled nervously, as if he wasn't sure whether Dorian was making fun of him.  _ Must remember to dial back the cynicism.  _ Dorian smiled. “The penance for my sloth is making do with coffee most days.”

Alistair opened his mouth to reply, then went red in the face and clopped his mouth shut.

“What?” Dorian asked. 

“I was just -- you don't seem lazy. I mean. You're, ah, quite fit.” He blushed harder and began to root around in the kitchen cabinets. 

It was impossibly charming. “Well I do enjoy running,” Dorian admitted. “And yoga.”

Alistair’s eyes went unfocused and he licked his lips. With a sharp inhale, he cleared his throat. “So, erm, I’ve got this thing,” he said, pulling a carafe and a variety of bits of metal from the cabinet. “Not  _ quite  _ sure how it works?”

Dorian rooted through the pieces, laughing. “It’s an Orlesian press. And this is a strainer for a cocktail shaker,” he said, holding up the extraneous implement.

“Ah,” Alistair said sagely. “That would explain why I could never get it to fit.” He retrieved a bag of coffee grounds from the freezer and handed it over, before setting a kettle on the stove.

“And why you’re not in charge of making coffee,” Dorian said, screwing the filter on to the end of the plunger mechanism. 

“I was strictly forbidden, in fact.” Alistair grinned ruefully, as if he was about to explain further, then his expression collapsed into a grimace. “Anyway,” he said, turning away. “Do you like scones?” His voice was over-bright and brittle.

Dorian wondered if Surana had been the coffee drinker; it would certainly explain why Alistair had a coffee press when he didn’t drink the stuff. For an instant, Dorian wondered if anyone would ever love him that much, to stumble over memories of him in wine glasses and shoeboxes and old books when he was gone, to stutter as his loss even after so much time. 

Aloud, he said, “I love scones,” pretending he hadn’t noticed Alistair falter. 

“Oh good. I’d hate to eat them all myself,” Alistair said, pulling a bowl down from the shelf. 

For a few minutes, they busied themselves -- Dorian with the coffee, Alistair with the baking and making himself a cup of tea. The kitchen wasn’t very large, however, and after the third time Dorian almost sloshed hot water on to Alistair, he shook his head. “I’m calling a retreat,” he said, seating himself on the far side of the counter with his coffee.

“Wise move,” Alistair nodded. 

There was a lull. The moment was, on paper at least, quite pleasant. Or it should have been. Nursing a cup of coffee in borrowed pajamas, the scent of scones and sawdust in the air, waiting to see what the morning would bring -- well, it was all quite romantic. So why did it feel so awkward? It felt as if there was a weight hanging over them both. “Alistair, is something bothering you?”

“What? Oh, well. Maybe? I mean no, not exactly, it’s just....” Alistair scrunched his nose as he stirred a handful of dried cranberries into the batter. “There’s something I need to ask you. About last night.” He kept his gaze trained on the bowl, though he left off stirring.

Not an auspicious start. “What is it?”

“You... were -- are... okay? With the, er --” Alistair made a clawing motion with one hand.

Dimly, Dorian remembered Alistair’s concern from the previous evening. He’d been too tired to register it at the time, especially since Alistair had been the one to instigate the back scratching to begin with. His stomach sank. “Oh god. Have you been worried this whole time? I quite liked it. I would’ve stopped you if I knew you were uncomfortable. God, I should have checked in --”

“No no! No. Um. I’m not uncomfortable,” Alistair stammered, in an altogether brazen display of discomfort.

Dorian raised his eyebrows skeptically. 

“Okay, maybe I’m a  _ little _ uncomfortable,” Alistair admitted. “But I wasn’t uncomfortable, er, during. I just don’t want to, um. You know. Hurt you. Or do it wrong.” He dumped the batter onto a floured cutting board.

There were few things Dorian hated more than performing a post-mortem on sex with his partner. That's what brunch with Felix was for. Still, this was partially his fault. “I’m sorry. I should have checked with you in the moment. I wouldn’t have let you go too far. Trust me, I know my limits.” 

Alistair nodded, blinking rapidly as he patted the dough into a circle. “Okay, good. That's... that's good. So long as you’re okay with it.”

As tempting as it was to change the subject, Dorian couldn’t leave it at that. “What about you? Are  _ you _ okay with it?” Dorian asked pointedly. God, this was brutal. Like pulling teeth. Why couldn’t talking about sex be enjoyable? 

Alistair gnawed on his bottom lip. “Uhm. Yes?” He spoke to the scone dough, as if it had been the one asking. 

“That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement,” Dorian noted. “Did you  _ like  _ it?” It had seemed like Alistair enjoyed it. Of course, dissecting the evening in such detail was putting a pall over the memory, and Dorian was no longer sure.

“Maker, yes,” Alistair half-groaned, half whispered, screwing his eyes shut as his blush re-asserted itself. 

Under different circumstances, it would have been sexy, but instead Dorian found himself awash in secondhand shame. Dorian resisted the urge to sigh in annoyance, and then hated himself for being so impatient. “This isn’t the Chantry, and I’m not a Sister. Don’t be embarrassed.”

Peeking one eye open, then the other, Alistair finally looked at him. “You’re right. Sorry. Sorry. Just... it’s a bit new.” He picked up the pastry cutter and divided the batter into wedges, placing them on a baking sheet with far more care that necessary. He turned and placed the tray in the oven, then began to tidy up.

“No need to apologize.” Dorian put on a gentle smile that he didn’t feel. He may have succeeded in comforting Alistair -- the man was standing a bit straighter, at least -- but Dorian himself felt a horrible, curdled uneasiness in his stomach. 

It was a familiar sensation; he experienced it often when his relationship with Max began to disintegrate. In the ensuing years, all it would take was the merest whiff of discomfort to make Dorian flee. Somehow he’d hoped that  _ this  _ would be different, that  _ Alistair  _ would be different, that it would  _ work. _ Not that Dorian expected things to be easy, but one does rather want one’s emotional effort to be useful rather than Sisyphean. 

The worst of it was, he was stuck there. He couldn’t flee. He’d have to sit there, pretending everything was fine and eating scones until Alistair took him back to his car.

Alistair stacked the dishes in the sink, then wiped the counter. He glanced up at Dorian without making eye contact. “Why don’t they ever say how hard it is, in books and things?” 

“What?”

“This,” Alistair said, motioning between them. “They never say, ‘and sometimes it just feels horrible and nobody is wrong and nobody is right and you’re not even fighting, but you still feel awful’, do they? I suppose no one would buy those books,” he added, frowning slightly. 

The tight knot of discontent in Dorian's stomach began to loosen, like a fist unclenching. “Probably not,” he agreed warily. In a perverse way, knowing that Alistair was just as miserable made it not so bad. At least he didn’t have to pretend to be at ease. 

Alistair nodded and sighed heavily. “Surana used to call them sinkholes. Sometimes you’d step in one without realizing -- one minute you’re happy, the next, you’re miserable. And sometimes you’d see them coming from a mile away and still not avoid them.” His gaze was trained in the middle distance as he remembered. “‘We’re in a sinkhole!’ she’d say. Didn’t always help knowing that, though.”

The words were all the more meaningful for being so unexpected. Dorian realized he’d been operating under the mistaken impression that Alistair’s relationship with his late wife had been nearly perfect. “Did that happen often?” 

Alistair shrugged. “She... had some issues. Family things. Not that I don’t. Some things we were able to work around, some just... kept coming up again and again, for some reason.” He shook his head, clearly still baffled.

The parallels to Dorian's relationship with Max were startling. Some switch in Dorian's mind flipped, and he found himself speaking without thinking it through. “Maybe because it’s hard to admit certain things. To ourselves, I mean.”

“I suppose,” Alistair nodded. He didn’t sound very hopeful, and that was what made Dorian speak again.

“I don’t like talking about sex after the fact because I’m afraid that it will spoil the illusion that it’s easy and fun,” Dorian blurted out. As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt a rush of embarrassment, but the heavy weight of misery lifted. He felt... actually, he felt a lot better.

Alistair stared at him. “What?”

Dorian held up his hands. “That’s what was bothering me, just now.”

“Oh.” Blinking, Alistair looked up at the ceiling, letting it sink in. “I had no idea.” He turned to Dorian. “I was afraid that you decided I wasn’t, you know.” He shrugged again.

“What -- kind? Considerate? Sexy?” Dorian found himself smiling.

“Well, yes,” Alistair laughed. “The last one, at least. I want you to be, um, satisfied, and, ah, I’m still learning lots of things, a-and I worry you’ll get bored of waiting for me to catch up.” He rubbed the back of his head and looked away. “Maker, I can’t believe I just said that out loud.”

Dorian slid off the stool and padded closer. “Do you feel better though?” He laid his hands on Alistair’s shoulders.

“I... do, in fact,” Alistair admitted. “How did that work?”

“I have no idea,” Dorian said. “Makes no sense; it’ll probably backfire later. For now, though, I’d quite like a kiss, if that can be arranged.”

He got several. And if the scones were a tiny bit burned as a result, well, it was a price he was willing to pay.


End file.
